“Veiled threats? About the restaurant?”
She shrugs. “Maybe.”
Suddenly, I’m turning down the street to my parents’ house. I don’t knock, my old key sliding into the lock as footsteps rush to the door. My mother is holding a baseball bat, the panic on her face quickly replaced by relief and then anger as she pulls me inside.
“Pen, it’s almost ten o’clock.”
“Where’s Dad?”
She sets down the bat, brushes her hair out of her face. “He’s not here.”
“Where is he?”
She straightens, matching my tone. “He’s working.”
“No, he’s not.”
Her shoulders slump. She knows that I know.
She turns her back on me and heads to the kitchen. A fresh pot of coffee bubbles, my mother taking it off the heat before pouring herself a cup. Then she pours one for me too, setting it down across from her. I don’t sit.
“I want you to tell me what’s going on,” I say.
“The police are going to take care of it.”
“You know that’s not true. If Dad trusted them to take care of it, the restaurant would be open right now and El Martillo would be in jail. But he’s not. And the longer this goes on, the more it seems like… like we’re protecting him. Letting him off the hook.”
“You think we’ve suddenly lost sight of the difference between right and wrong? It’s complicated, Pen. Too complicated to explain to you right now.”
“Because you don’t think I’ll understand or because you’re ashamed?” The second the words come out, I instantly want to shove them back down.
My mother’s voice is stern. “Your father has given up everything to protect his family, to protect this neighborhood. For that, we will never be ashamed.”
My stomach drops. “What do you mean, given up everything?”
She looks away.
“Mom…” It feels like the ground beneath me gives way. “The restaurant,” I force out. “It’s still ours, isn’t it?”
My mother reaches for my hand. “Pen…”
I know what she wants to say, but I don’t want to hear it.
“Pen, I’m sorry.”
When I get back to my apartment there’s no music blaring. No muffled voices coming from a television somewhere. At first, I’m relieved. I might actually get some sleep. But suddenly the quiet slows my steps, my heart racing the second my front door comes into view.
It’s ajar, the gap just wide enough for me to make out the mess. I stop, waiting for footsteps, voices, any sign that they might still be inside my apartment. But the quiet spreads, luring me closer.
The mattress is upside down, blankets on the floor. The trunk at the foot of my bed has been emptied too, clothes scattered. I don’t dare tread closer, skin pricking as if their eyes are still on me. I back into Mrs. Damas’s door, my hand falling limp as I attempt to knock.
I’m shaking so much by the time she answers that I can’t even get the words out. She looks over my shoulder to my apartment and then she drags me inside.
“Are you all right?” She hands me a glass of water.
I just hold it, unable to drink, to speak.
“I’m calling the police.” Mrs. Damas presses the phone to her ear. It rings once. “Yes. I want to report a robbery.…”
At the same time, I open my contacts and start scrolling. My finger hovers over Xander’s name, but then I hear the sirens. I slide down to my father’s phone number and hit CALL.
Ten minutes later, Officer Solis stops him and Angel in the doorway, explaining what happened. “They’re searching the neighborhood and taking witness statements. A tenant said she noticed someone in a hoodie using the access stairs. Didn’t look like one of the residents.”
My father never takes his eyes off me, his expression darkening as he reconciles the details relayed by Officer Solis and the empty look on my face. Angel’s fuming.
“We need her to walk the apartment and tell us if anything is missing.”
My father comes over to me slowly. He takes both of my hands. “Are you okay?”
I croak out, “Yes.”
“We need to go inside the apartment so we can tell the police if anything is missing. Can you do that?”
I nod.
I follow my father past police officers and curious neighbors. Angel hangs back, Officer Solis trying to calm him down. I catch his eye and I can’t shake the fear before he sees, the dread draining the color from my face and igniting him all over again.
“You find him. You find him before I do.”
“Angel, we’re doing everything we—”
“It’s not enough. It never has been. But I won’t let—”
Officer Solis drags Angel down the hall, Angel’s voice still raised.
My lips barely part. “They think… it was him.”
My father doesn’t respond, steering me over the threshold instead. The first thing I see is the bookshelf Xander put together. Everything glass is broken, the shelves snapped as if someone drove their foot into them one by one, my childhood memories scattered like fallen leaves.
I immediately reach for the pieces, trying to scoop things up, to put them back together.
“Uh, miss…” An officer approaches. “We’re still in the process of photographing everything. So if you could please—?”
“I’m sorry.”
I let my father lead me from one broken thing to the next while I list everything that’s missing for the officer—some jewelry, my laptop. But they didn’t take as much as I thought. Maybe that wasn’t the point. Maybe the point… the reason why they… why he did this… was to make me feel this. To remind me… and my father that we can break. That he knows how to do it. That it’s easy when you’re the one with all the power… And we’re the ones with everything to lose.
We make our way around to the kitchen. The pantry’s been ransacked, food scattered all over the floor. The fridge door is open, more food spilling out. I move to the center of the room, tracing every crack and tear and sharp edge. Until each breath I suck down is just as sharp. Until I can’t breathe at all.
My father pulls me to his chest. “You’re safe, Pen. You’re okay. I’m here.” He grips me harder. “I’m here.”
19
Xander
I ARRIVE TOO EARLY at the diner and have to order a stack of pancakes to avoid looking suspicious. I take a few bites, the last one scraping all the way down. I chug my orange juice, but the sugar only makes me more jittery.
“Xander Amaro?” A man sits down across from me. “Detective Freeman.” He reaches out a hand.
“Nice to meet you.” We shake.
He doesn’t look like a private investigator—no fedora or long trench coat. Instead, he’s wearing denim shorts and white sneakers, a pair of sporty sunglasses with purple frames resting in his spiked silver hair.
“I think I was able to get most of the information I need from your voice mail. I can start working on your case as soon as this week. But before we move any further, we’ll need to talk about price.”
I think back to the lawyer’s assurance that Detective Freeman is not only thorough but honest. Unfortunately, she didn’t say he was cheap.
“I charge by the hour, and depending on how complex the case, I could clock in anywhere from five to twenty hours a week.”
“What’s the rate?”
“One hundred dollars. But I request that new clients pay an up-front retainer—five hours’ worth of work—and then I check in with you to discuss how much more time I might need.”
“So that’s five hundred dollars?”
He nods. “Look, Xander, people don’t recommend me to their clients because I’m the cheapest guy on the block. They recommend me because I’m not in the business of screwing people over. I can’t tell you how many people have come to me after having already shelled out thousands of dollars to another PI who just up and disappeared.” His brow furrows, sincere. “If you’re co
mmitted to this, then so am I. I can promise you that.”
Back in the car, I scratch Detective Freeman’s price onto the back of his business card, trying to calculate how many more hours I’ll need to work before I can pay the retainer. But then I remember that Nacho’s is closed and will be for the indeterminable future. Maybe I should try to find another job. Or maybe I can offer to help Mr. Daly clean out his garage… and his house… and his backyard.
When I pull into the driveway, my abuelo and Mr. Daly are marveling at an old record player in the back of Mr. Daly’s truck.
“Give us a hand, will you?” Mr. Daly grunts, trying to shove the console to the end of the truck bed.
I help him carry it into the living room. The place is packed, so we just drop it as close to an outlet as possible, Mr. Daly excited to get it plugged in to see if it works.
“You didn’t think about testing it before you bought it?” I ask.
“These things are indestructible.” He waves to a collection of cardboard boxes on the other side of the room. “Crack open the third one to the left and hand me one of those records.”
I clear a few of the other boxes out of the way and realize that they’re sitting on top of a five-foot console that looks almost identical to the one we just carried inside.
I take a step back. “Uh… did you know this was here?”
Mr. Daly wipes his brow, exasperated. “Of course I knew it was there. Now I’ve got a matching set.”
Just as Mr. Daly drops the needle on Songs in the Key of Life, my phone buzzes. It’s Angel.
I step out onto the porch, hoping he’s calling to tell me the restaurant is open, which would mean I could pay Detective Freeman as soon as next week.
“Hello?”
“Where are you?” I can hear traffic in the background.
“At home. Why? Is the—?”
“I’m picking you up in five.”
He’s pulling into my driveway in three, waving at me to hop in. Lucas slides to the back seat. He’s stone-faced, and it makes me uneasy.
“What’s going on?”
I didn’t have time to pull on my Nacho’s shirt before I ran out to the sound of Angel’s honk. He stops me before I can yank it over my head.
“You won’t be needing that.”
“Where are we going?” I ask.
Lucas faces me. “We’re going to find out where that son of a bitch J. P. is hiding.”
I look from Lucas to Angel. They look like they’ve been up all night, and there’s something destructive beneath the dark shadows under their eyes. It’s laser-focused, and I wonder how much they’ve really thought this plan through. Maybe they don’t even have one.
“What happened?” I ask.
Angel practically growls. “He broke into Pen’s apartment last night.”
My heart stops, ears ringing. “Is she—?”
“She’s fine,” Angel says. “She wasn’t there. But he ransacked the place.”
She wasn’t there.
She wasn’t there.
But she could have been.
There’s a dent in Angel’s glove compartment before Lucas can pin my shoulders to the back of my seat, my breaths coming hard and fast as Angel peels out onto the street. He runs a stop sign, and that’s when I spot the gun against his hip. The sight of it sobers me for a second, and I realize we’re not on our way to turn El Martillo in or even to beat the shit out of him. We’re on our way to kill him.
When we finally pull up to the house, low-hanging tree branches knocking against the roof of the truck, I’m not in my body anymore and I don’t know how to force myself back inside.
Angel is pure adrenaline, Lucas trying to get him to stay low, as we approach the house. We slide along the exterior, and beneath the carport I can see El Martillo talking on his cell phone as he makes his way to the driver’s side door. There are other voices, at least two.
I press myself to the wall, turning my head so I can whisper in Angel’s ear and tell him we should go back to the truck to call Officer Solis. But before I can open my mouth, Angel steps beneath the carport, the revolver pointed straight at El Martillo.
Hammers click, one after the other, three guns aimed back at Angel.
“Oh, hell no.” Lucas takes a step, but I push him back.
“Call Officer Solis.”
And then I give El Martillo’s henchmen another target. When I reach Angel he’s shaking, and all I want is to take the gun from him. It’s El Martillo who signals for the others to lower their guns instead.
“I think I know what this is about.” El Martillo snaps a finger. “I heard the restaurant’s been closed for a few days. Pest problem. That’s a shame. Nacho’s has the best tacos in town.”
“I think the pest problem is you.” Spittle rests in the corner of Angel’s lips. I can tell he wants to scream.
El Martillo laughs, taking a step closer. “And you’ve—what? Come to exterminate me?” He winks. “And let me guess. You’re some kind of sidekick?” He’s an arm’s length away now.
“You went after my fucking sister. That’s why we’re here.”
“Ah.” El Martillo rubs at his chin. “It’s a family matter. See, that’s the problem; the real reason the restaurant is closed. Because your father thinks he’s running a charity, not a business. To him, everyone’s family.” He shakes his head. “But that’s too many mouths to feed. Cuts into my profit margins.”
Angel narrows his eyes. “What do you mean your profit margins?”
El Martillo puts his hands on his hips, amused again. “Hell, kid. I thought you were the manager.” He wags a finger. “Maybe I should pay your sister a visit. Seems like she’s the real brains of the family.” He grins, looking right at me. “And the beauty to match.”
I swing but he hits me first, landing a punch to the right side of my face. My mouth fills with blood. Before I can choke on it, he grabs me by the shirt collar.
“You want me to make you disappear, boy? You think I haven’t done it before?”
I spit at him, blood sticking to his face.
He grits his teeth before giving one of the gunmen a signal.
The bullet cracks like lightning, the pain so deep I can’t even feel it. The wind dusts my face, sweat trickling down. I try to sense the wound, but when I open my eyes there isn’t one, the gunman facedown instead.
Four police officers spread out, guns drawn. El Martillo lets go of me, hands raised. Officer Solis snatches me off the ground before dragging me to his cruiser while Angel and Lucas are pushed into the car up ahead.
“Are you okay?” Officer Solis asks once the doors are shut.
I don’t know how to answer. I check myself for wounds one more time.
“Xander?”
“I’m okay.”
We follow the other patrol car, El Martillo and the others being cuffed behind us.
“What the hell was that?” He watches me in the rearview mirror. “Xander, what the hell were you thinking?”
“Angel.” I swallow more blood. “J. P. went after Pen. He ransacked her apartment.”
“I was there last night, but no one’s found anything to peg it on J. P. Do you have some kind of proof?” He’s desperate to find something tangible that will connect J. P. to a crime—any crime. He exhales. “They’ll sweep the house. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
I try to watch the road, the lines zipping past at the rate of my pulse. But I keep catching my reflection in the window.
“I’ll press charges for the assault,” I finally say.
Officer Solis glances back, probably not sure if he heard me right.
“How much time do you think he’ll do for that?”
“Xander…” There’s no enthusiasm in his voice, not even relief.
He pulls over, letting the other cruisers pass us. He looks back over the seat, examining my wounds, searching for the fear that used to keep me quiet. But I don’t want to stay silent. I can’t if it means Pen could be in danger.<
br />
“Please.” I’m choking again, tears welling up at the base of my throat. “Please let me do this.” I picture Pen, her fingertips tracing my scars. If I testify against El Martillo I can protect her. I meet Officer Solis’s eyes, willing him to see the strength underneath all of this brokenness. “I have to do this.”
20
Pen
“LET HER SLEEP.”
“But it’s almost dinnertime. I want Pen to—”
“Shh. Come on. Let’s close the door.”
Clammy fingertips brush my face.
“Lola, no…”
I roll, my first instinct to swat at whatever’s tickling my skin. But then I blink and see Lola. My mother’s got her by the arm, trying to drag her into the hallway.
I smile. “Did somebody say something about dinner?”
I yank her onto the mattress, tickling her as she squeals.
“Pen, I have to pee!”
I kiss her on the cheek, sitting up. “Okay, go pee. I’ll meet you in the kitchen.”
Lola skips down the hall.
“And wash your hands,” my mother calls after her.
She lingers in the doorway and in the stillness, the memory of why I’m here hits me in the gut. I remember my apartment door, cracked, my slow footsteps revealing the mess on the other side. I remember the sirens and that sinking feeling that something awful had happened, was happening.
We didn’t leave the police station until almost 2:00 AM. I glance at the clock—it’s ten till six. I’ve been asleep for hours but I still feel like I’m in a fog. I know it’s all over my face, and I look away before my mother can see. But then she crumbles next to me, wrapping her arms around my neck.
She waits for me to lean on her, and I want to, but it’s too dangerous. The helplessness isn’t just in my head this time. It’s not just a feeling I can’t control. It’s a place. A trap. And if I fall into that trap, it won’t just derail me again. It will destroy me.
“I’m so sorry, Pen.” She squeezes harder, probably trying to picture what it looked like. Or trying not to.
Somewhere Between Bitter and Sweet Page 17
