by Connor, Eden
“Colton will get second choice from that lot. He’ll be the next one to get married.”
Infuriated and unable to look at Dan, he stared at the ring. “I don’t know what Colton wants in order to lease you sole control of those orchards, but I know what I’ll take.”
From the corner of his eye, Eric saw Dan’s chest heaving. If he didn’t keep talking, Dan was gonna work his way around to reminding Eric he was the reason Rafe and Liv had an argument neither had ever been willing to patch up. Had that major family feud not taken place, he doubted Livia’s estate would’ve been auctioned.
The past he hated was never as close as it felt in this house. He didn’t begrudge Dan the farmhouse. The place had Rafe stamped all over it. Naturally, Dan hadn’t changed a thing. Every polished surface seemed to throw back some memory of his father, mostly times Rafe had raised immortal hell over one of Eric’s fuck-ups. He hated this room. His body ached from remembered blows, delivered here. His pounding heartbeat could’ve been Rafe’s heavy hand striking his chest.
Dan inhaled, his huge chest expanding. His words were clipped, like he spoke through clenched teeth. “What would that be?”
“I’ll take a lease giving me control of the migrant camp. That’s less’n twenty acres, so I want the lower packing shed, too. You can use the smaller ones for Cynda’s peaches.”
Dan set his jaw. “No. It’s not viable to put some kid’s camp up there, Eric. The bank already told you, you don’t know what you’re doing. You’d be wasting your time and your money.”
Eric jumped out of the chair. “That’s my signature move, right? No matter what I do, according to you, it’s stupid. So much like Dad. Hell, sometimes, when I look at you, I forget the old bastard’s dead. Well, I’m not asking you, Dan. I’m tellin’ you. If you can just hand control of twenty acres over to a woman you only met about five months ago, then you can damn sure hand control of the camp over to me. I’ll sign your lease when you sign mine. If not, then I guess Cynda wasted all the time spent on her little project.”
* * * *
Amy disconnected the call to Lila. “Dammit.” She didn’t have the patience to wait an hour. Turning off the lights, she started the projector, then decided to grab a drink. She spied packs of ham and cheese in the fridge, beside the six-pack of canned soda. Eric seriously needed to stop storing his loaf bread on top of the massive side-by-side fridge. She could barely reach the end of the plastic wrapper. She glanced at the spot on the wall while spreading mayonnaise. The leader film was still running. Then, a young girl came into focus, seated in an old-fashioned school desk.
Is that Sarah? The girl had long, dark hair and she looked about twelve. A woman, perhaps in her late fifties, came into view holding a stick microphone. The old-fashioned technology gave Amy a burst of affection for her cell phone.
“It’s okay.” She glanced up to see the older woman was the speaker. The sound was surprisingly good. She had no trouble understanding what was said. “Speak slowly. Use English. If you don’t know the English word, use Spanish and I’ll translate.” The older woman faced the camera.” I’m Livia Montgomery Chapman. This is Mariele Torres de Cordoba.”
Oh, crap. Was this a film Eric’s grandmother made of one of her students? Groaning, Amy decided she’d eat the sandwich before changing the reel. She wanted to see Eric, Dan, Colton, and Sarah as youngsters. Mostly Eric. Today, after her failure, she needed to see his eyes before they had had that hurt look in them.
* * * *
Eric held up the ring he’d picked out of the box, for no reason other than it matched the paint on Amy’s car. Fury had control of his tongue now, not his brain. “And this? Fuck your high-handed decisions. I’ll get married when I goddamn well please, but since you already had first pick, we’re doing this by age, not wedding date.”
Shoving the ring into his pocket, he yanked the office door open with such force a figurine toppled from a hanging shelf. Shattered pieces flew across the patterned rug.
Cynda stood in the middle of the fancy, useless room. Her hand was at her throat. Her lower lids sparkled as much as the stupid ring on her finger. He couldn’t meet her stricken eyes when he brushed past.
Eric couldn’t go home. He hated that he’d hurt Cynda, and the last thing he wanted was to take his foul mood out on Amy. She’d had her mock interview today, on top of her test. If those things had gone well, she’d want to celebrate. If not, he owed it to her to lift her spirits. He’d planned to take her to dinner and tell her about the camp. Maybe take her parents along, if she wanted. Too damn bad his plan had been blown to bits by his brother. Snow and ice still clung to the sides of the lane, but he’d be damned if he’d use Dan’s driveway. He made a three-point turn in the road, feeling stupidly triumphant when his tires churned up clots of mud and flung them across Dan’s front yard.
The sun was almost gone when he reached the camp gate. He sat in the truck, glaring at the angel. Why stay here? Why give a damn if his brothers had to hire someone to replace him?
He understood why Sarah never came back. This place applied shrink wrap early, stunting a person’s growth. Whatever people thought you were was all you could ever be. Though he was furious with Dan, he saw the way people looked sideways at his brother and Cynda when they went out together. He saw the looks people gave Lila, too.
And sooner or later, they’d look at Amy the same damn way.
Do I want that for her?
* * * *
“The bee man, he promised me honey and some cash if I’d clean his house. His wife was in the bed. He told me she had the cancer in her mujer parts. That she couldn’t be a real wife to him. I didn’t like the way he watched me. I didn’t know why he would tell me of such a... privado thing.”
“Mujer means ‘woman’,” Livia interjected, stroking the child’s arm.
Amy dropped the butter knife. Mayonnaise splattered the counter. Her stomach churned. She dashed to the couch to grab her phone. Her hands shook so violently, she had to scroll through her call register several times before she found the number she needed. The film was still running when Mark Martinez answered. “I think I’ve found the evidence you need for that warrant. How about a victim telling her story, in living color? Is that good enough for you?”
He took down directions. “I’m just a few minutes away, actually.”
She disconnected. The film was still running, but the young girl was no longer in the picture. Now the camera was set at a slightly different angle, like someone had bumped it. Liv Chapman was no longer centered in the frame. Amy could see rows of vintage school desks, a United States flag, and the flag of Mexico. She’d seen this room when she and Eric were looking for the ledgers. The flags were in tatters now.
Livia stared into the camera with eyes so much like Eric’s, Amy found it hard to breathe. That look of pain... so familiar. “I told my husband, Nance, about the rape. He said he didn’t care. Called this adorable child a whore. I took Mariele to speak to the police. They don’t care, either. She’s not a citizen, they said. Not their problem.” Tears slid along etched lines in the woman’s face. “My husband’s partner, Emilio De Marco, agreed to pay her passage home, but she refused. She said she had no home to go back to.”
Livia inhaled, clearly trying to get her emotions under control.“John Carpenter raped Mariele and he’s going to get away with it. He terrorized her, bragging that he’d buried bodies of other Mexican women who refused him in his barn. Maybe he’s making up the murders to scare her into keeping quiet about her rape. But when I look into his cold, gray eyes, I wonder. Women have gone missing from this farm, and those nearby. We always assumed they got homesick, because that’s what the other workers said. But what if they all kept quiet out of fear? Or intimidation?”
Amy’s stomach filled with acid. Gray eyes. How common can those be?
“Not one single soul gives a damn, because it’s a migrant worker who’s been victimized. I asked Mariele to make this film. I don’t know what good
it will do. I cannot stop thinking of the words of Martin Luther King, Junior. ‘Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter’.”
Livia’s stoic expression crumbled. Her shoulders shook and her sobs tore at Amy’s heartstrings. She had to strain to make out the woman’s next words. “This matters. I can’t sleep nights for wondering how it’s possible it only matters to me. Maybe one day, this... despicable man can be brought to justice. Until then, God have mercy on us all. We deserve our place in Hell. My only hope is that my grandsons will be better men.”
The De Marcos deserve their troubles. Maybe if your forefathers had stepped up to stop their bee man from raping innocents, your mother would still be alive.
The truth of that statement pierced Amy’s heart like a lance. She wished she’d never bumped into the girl at the mall—never gone to the mall at all that day. She wasn’t sure she could bear watching her friends and her lover suffer this blow.
Rubbing tears off her cheeks, Amy called Lila a third time. “Tell Jonah I need to reschedule, okay? Something came up.” She disconnected the call and sat in the dark, listening to the flap, flap, flap of the loose end of the film.
She couldn’t fix this with a sponge ball gun.
* * * *
Eric flung open the Dodge’s door. Striding to the angel, he drove his fists against the wood. “I don’t know what to do!” He wanted Amy with all his heart. But how would she feel a year from now? Five? Logic dictated the downhill slide for his family’s reputation must’ve begun the minute his mother died. He knew there’d been nasty rumors about his father. Plenty of folks thought Rafe had killed his wife. Never mind Rafe’d had four fucking witnesses—his kids. But Livia and Nance remained close, keeping the gossiping wolves at bay.
Until he’d caused his grandparents to turn away.
“I fucked that up!” He pummeled the angel. “Me! I did that.”
Until he’d let his sister get pregnant.
Pain sizzled up the bones in his hands, but Eric kept punching. “Me. Always me. I’m the fuck-up.”
But the angel didn’t tell him how to fix a damn thing. He threw his arms around the totem, staggering under the weight of guilt and remorse and anger. His boots slipped on the ice. He lost his balance, but kept hold of the statue, spinning nearly halfway around the pole before he found his footing.
Movement at the foot of the mountain caught his eye. A strange car was coming down the lane. The dark sedan crept past Colton’s house. The headlights turned into his driveway, illuminating the back of Amy’s bright blue car.
She was home alone. Eric had no illusions about how fucking safe she might be.
He ran for the truck and raced down the mountain road, slinging the Dodge around the curves at break-neck speed, but the trip took long enough for him to picture her dead fifty different ways. His hands slipped on the wheel, but he kept his speed as high as he could, roaring past the farmhouse, finally making a wide turn into his drive, careless of the grass.
Slamming on his brakes, he shoved the transmission into neutral and turned off the ignition. Jumping from the Dodge, he couldn’t help thinking of the man who’d attacked Cynda. Where’s my shotgun? Had he warned Amy to keep the doors locked? The strange car was empty. He raced across the yard and leaped the stairs, his heart in his throat.
He yanked the front door open and stepped inside. A dark-haired man he’d never laid eyes on stood in his kitchen. Between him and his gun. “Who the hell are you?”
Amy was on the sofa and when she raised her head, he spied red-rimmed eyes. What. The Fuck? Eric’s gut clenched. “Eric, this is—” She gave the man a pleading look.
“Amy, honey, what’s wrong?” Eric shoved past the man.
“Mr. De Marco? I’m Mark Martínez. I’m an investigator for Brice Hammond. I think he gave you my card?”
The warmth gained from the Dodge’s heater seemed to drain from Eric’s body. “What’s happened?”
“Sit by me,” Amy begged, patting the cushion at her side. “Sit by me first.”
He sank onto the couch. Wrapping his arm around her shoulders, he felt her tremble.
“I don’t want to get your hopes up, Mr. De Marco, but Amy’s shown me some things that might help us keep John Carpenter behind bars for a long time.”
Relief flooded him. And just as fast, confusion rushed in. What the hell could Amy have shown this man?
“I’m going to have to find a way to substantiate the film, of course. It can’t be admitted as evidence, since we can’t put this girl on the witness stand for John’s lawyer to cross-examine, but I’ll do my best to find a way around that.”
Eric’s head was spinning. He held up a hand. “What the hell are you talking about? What film? What girl? We didn’t find the records Mr. Hammond wants.”
Amy pointed over her shoulder. He stared in confusion at the old Bell and Howell projector. “Your grandmother made a film. And she put it in the one place—hid it inside the one thing—she knew you’d never throw out.” She shook her head. “Let me start at the beginning. Remember the night we ran into each other at the mall? Then I bumped into that Latino girl?”
Eric listened, unable to believe Amy had been busting her ass to find a way to keep John in jail without saying a word to anyone about her efforts. He listened to the two recordings she’d made of the girl, one accidentally that night, one deliberately this afternoon. He couldn’t seem to wrap his head around the fact that she’d followed this woman. He stared at the photo she’d taken. Flashing back to the night at the mall, he nodded. “That’s the girl I remember.”
Amy turned off the lights and started the projector. She came back to the couch and grabbed his hand. “It’s going to be okay. Somehow, some way, you’ve gotta believe me. It’s going to be okay.” Her hands were warm. Funny, he couldn’t feel the warmth from the fire. Every bit of heat in the room came from her.
He hadn’t allowed himself to cry since that day in the bathroom back in kindergarten, but he wasn’t prepared to see his grandmother. She’d always been holding the camera. His horror mounted as he watched the short movie. Agony ripped though him when her words sank in. He thought he might puke.
“Why isn’t this enough?” he demanded when Amy turned the lights on again. “Why can’t you lock the motherfucker up and throw away the key now? Can’t you see? Can’t you see he’s destroyed my family?”
The investigator held up both palms. “We might find skeletons in that barn. We might not. This is enough for a warrant. One step at a time. First, we dig. Bri—Mr. Hammond is willing to wake up a judge, as soon as he’s seen this. He wants to nail this guy. I’ll need to take the film, of course.”
Solid, respectable little Amy stuck her nose in the air and squared her shoulders in a way that reminded him of his grandmother. “Before you do that, I’m going to play the film one more time and record it with my phone. Because, you know, evidence gets lost.”
Shell-shocked, Eric suffered through the movie a second time. When it finished, Amy walked the investigator to the door. She turned the lock. “While I warm one of those casseroles Cynda made, we’re going to the hot pool. Then we’re going to eat and curl up in bed. I’ll hold you all night,” Amy vowed, “and anything you need to say is safe with me.”
The one thing he needed to tell her was the one thing he couldn’t say.
His grandfather had earned them their second-class status, by refusing to fight for the men and women he employed. Eric tried to imagine Amy’s father doing that—and failed. Tucker had gone to bat for Jonah before he’d even met the kid. He’d never turn his back on someone in Mariele’s situation.
The Chapman side of the family had made De Marco Farms less than.
Chapter Twenty-One
Eric rubbed his eyes. The inside of his lids felt like sixty-grit sandpaper. Dammit. Easing his arm from under Amy’s head, he wondered anew what it’d be like to live somewhere else while he shoved his legs into his sweat pants. Maybe he ne
eded a guard dog. No, Amy disliked large dogs. An electric fence would do. The knock didn’t sound like Colton’s.
No doubt, Dan had come to reclaim the ring.
He staggered through the house. It was barely light out. Unlocking the door, he took a deep breath. He dreaded having to convince Dan that John Carpenter wasn’t the only person who wasn’t who he appeared to be.
Inhaling, he yanked the door open just as Dan began to pound again. “You’re gonna wake Amy,” he growled.
A morning beard shadowed Dan’s face. His brother’s tone was equally rough. “Lila’s in labor. The rescue squads are all out on calls. Cynda called nine-one-one. We’re gonna meet the ambulance. Lila can lie down in the back of your truck, so I need you to drive.”
Eric blinked. Dan slapped a hard palm against his shoulder. “Move. The baby’s coming, Eric. Colton’s a fucking mess. I saw him born at home. Never wanna go through that again.”
Eric whirled. The clothing he’d taken off the night before lay on the floor beside the couch. He thought about waking Amy, but what good would that do?
Dan snagged his keys when Eric hurled them. The truck’s exhaust spit a plume of white into the wintry morning by the time he made it through the door. Eric had to squint to see his brother’s dark jacket and jeans through the whirling snow. Cynda backed out of his back seat. He spied something flowery draped over the red upholstery. “Shower curtain,” she explained, slamming the door. “Her waters broke about an hour ago and she’s in hard labor already. This is bad. My mother had preeclampsia. It happens to younger and older mothers, mostly.” Her words crashed together like bumper cars at the fair. “I think Lila has it. My mom lived about three hours after I was born.”
