by Hester Young
“Not yet.” I slice off a hunk of steak and load it onto my fork. “I don’t want this out yet. My information’s too shaky.”
“Charlie. Noah is in jail. He could get up to a year for this. We have to get him out, preferably before his arraignment on Monday.” Carmen examines her mostly empty salad plate, the pile of croutons she shoved to the side. She pops one into her mouth, evidently deciding to risk the carbs. “After Monday, you guys are on your own.”
“You’re really going to leave?” I have mixed feelings about this.
“I told you before. I’ll stick around this weekend, and then I’m out.” She picks up another crouton and traces little figure eights in her vinaigrette. “I can send you another lawyer from my firm, someone good. He won’t be cheap, but—”
“Is it because of me? Am I the reason you won’t stay?”
Carmen finishes chewing and wipes her upper lip with her napkin. When at last her eyes meet mine, there’s a look of vulnerability I haven’t seen before. “It’s because of me,” she says. “I have to take care of myself, that’s all.”
I can only imagine what Carmen’s been going through the last twenty-four hours, having to divide all her time between her ex-husband and his pregnant girlfriend. If the prospect of her bowing out on us makes me feel strangely abandoned, I can understand where she’s coming from.
“Okay,” I say. “If you could line someone else up . . . I’d appreciate it.”
For the rest of the meal, Carmen and I avoid speaking. She orders another glass of wine and then spends her time “dealing with a work thing” on her phone, which may or may not be a total fabrication. Eventually, the waiter arrives and gives Carmen the check. It feels like a minor insult, as though he’s evaluated us both and decided she’s the financially responsible adult.
“I’ll take that.” As I reach out to grab the bill, my fingers brush hers.
A crackling sensation. An impression washing over me in a sudden wave.
My body pressed flat against a wall. Numbness.
In my right hand, a white plastic stick.
If I don’t look, maybe it will vanish. If I close my eyes, maybe that pink plus sign will fade.
The end of everything. This is the end of everything.
I withdraw my hand sharply from Carmen’s, unsure exactly what I’ve seen. A pregnancy test, of course. But why? All the possible implications swirl through my mind.
“Sorry,” I mumble when I see she’s staring at me. Somehow I pry my credit card from my wallet. Try not to look too thrown as I slap it down.
Is Carmen pregnant? But she couldn’t be. She was drinking all that wine. And the crap she gave me before about unintentional pregnancies—there’s no way.
Still, I can’t shake the feeling of unease. I don’t see things by accident. There’s always a reason.
• • •
CARMEN SAYS SHE HAS a few errands to run, so I give her my car keys and let her drop me off at the hotel. A few paces short of the room, my phone begins to vibrate. I get a bad feeling when I see the caller ID.
“Charlotte? This is Vonda Lopez, Micky’s foster mom?”
“Hi!” My voice is absurdly bright; the last thing I want is for her and Child Protective Services to find out Micky’s potential dad is facing drug charges. “How are you guys doing?”
“I don’t know.” She sounds flustered. “Listen, I’m probably silly for even asking, but I just wanted to check. Did you send someone by to see Micky this evening?”
“What?” The phone suddenly feels very heavy in my hand. “No. Why?”
“Oh, gosh,” she says. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. Vonda, what happened? Who came by?”
She gives an unhappy sigh. “Micky was playing in the front yard after dinner. I was finishing up with the dishes. And when I came out . . . she was talking to someone. A man.” She pauses, and I can feel her turning it over in her head, working through all the nasty possibilities. “I got upset, of course, some stranger in my yard speaking to this little girl, but he said he knew you and Noah. That you’d asked him to check up on her. It felt . . . off. I mean, why would you give someone my address?”
“I didn’t.” I fight back a feeling of nausea. To know that I’m responsible for Noah’s incarceration is horrible enough. But to have jeopardized Micky through my own foolish actions—how can I forgive myself? “What did he look like?” I ask.
“Um . . .” Vonda searches for details. “About my age, I’d guess. Fiftyish? Big guy. He had a red shirt. With flowers.”
“And you spoke to him?”
“Yes. He had a slight accent. He told me his name was—”
“Quico,” I murmur.
“Oh,” she says, and gives a relieved laugh. “You do know him.”
PART VI
Tucson, Arizona
Twenty-Four
I don’t want to alarm Vonda, but I don’t want her greeting Quico Ortega with open arms if he shows up at her place again, either. “That guy you saw tonight is not my friend,” I tell her. “If he ever comes back, you bring Micky inside and you call the police, okay?”
I expect Vonda to freak out and demand answers, but she only lets out another long sigh. “I was afraid of this. Is he a relative?”
“No. But I think he knew Micky’s grandmother. They may have had some . . . issues.”
“I’ll keep an eye open,” Vonda promises. “If he comes around again, we might want to talk to Daniel about getting Micky a different placement. For safety reasons.” She sounds surprisingly matter-of-fact about the whole thing, and it occurs to me that this woman must have encountered her share of sticky situations.
“Thanks for calling,” I say. “I know you’ll be extra careful. Tell Micky that I’ll visit soon.” My throat tightens as I realize that, without thinking, I have just excluded Noah. Part of me doesn’t expect him to get out. Part of me is preparing to be alone again.
“You have a good night,” Vonda says, and then mumbles to herself as she hangs up, “I knew something about him wasn’t right.”
Of course you knew, I think, staring at the hotel wall. He wanted you to know.
Quico could’ve given a different name, changed his clothes, anything to throw us off. Instead, he went out of his way to mention me. Claimed to be my friend. Clearly, he wanted Vonda to call me, to let me know that he’d stopped by. I sit on the edge of the bed, hands gripping fistfuls of sheet, trying to control my breathing.
Quico Ortega knows who I am. Knows about my relationship with Micky and, by extension, Donna.
This is my fault. I thought that, having made it across the border, I was safe. I never imagined someone dragging my niece into it. If Quico had wanted to hurt her, he could have. I know she’s just a pawn, a way to get to me, to remind me of my vulnerabilities. But that doesn’t mean she’s not in danger.
What the hell does this man think I know?
Marilena must’ve told Quico I was there at the hotel today. It didn’t take him long to find out where Micky was living—and foster placements are supposed to be confidential. Whatever connections he has in the United States are certainly well-placed. That, or he’s been watching Noah and me much longer than I thought. No doubt about it: Quico’s presence tonight was a warning. One I’d do well to heed.
Stay out of this, he’s telling me. I know who you love.
• • •
BY SUNDAY MORNING, I’m a puffy-eyed wreck operating on just a couple hours of sleep. Last night, Carmen promised to tell me the details of Noah’s transfer as soon as she received them, but she isn’t answering her phone or hotel door. I roam through the parking lot and discover the car she borrowed is still missing. Did she even make it home last night?
Worst-case scenarios flutter through my brain. Quico Ortega abducting Carmen to teach me a lesson. Carmen sneaking off
for a steamy jail visit with Noah. I know things are bad, but what if they’re worse than I realize?
I call the jail, hoping to schedule a visit or a phone call with Noah before they move him. A pleasant administrator informs me that Noah Palmer is “currently unavailable.”
“What does that mean?” I ask. “Was he already transferred?”
His response is both polite and vague. “I don’t have that information. You might want to contact the inmate’s legal representative.”
Inmate. Noah’s an inmate now.
“I’ve been trying to reach the inmate’s lawyer all morning,” I say. “He has to appear in court tomorrow. Somebody must know something.”
“It’s Sunday,” the administrator announces, as if I’ve been on a drunken bender and lost track of the days. “Try contacting the attorney tomorrow during business hours.”
That leaves me with no news, no car, no Carmen. Am I supposed to sit idly by trusting that Noah’s ex-wife has my best interest at heart? That she’ll keep me apprised of the situation? We haven’t even discussed her fee. My decision to involve her in our legal issues now seems incredibly shortsighted. What if she’s been providing us with terrible counsel all along, pushing Noah to plead guilty in a twisted attempt at revenge?
If she’s not back by noon, I’ll report the car stolen.
With a trial lawyer’s sense of timing and flair for drama, Carmen sends me a text at 11:52. Pack ur bags & meet in parking lot 30 mins. Though aggravated by the cryptic message, I tear through my hotel room, tossing toiletries and sweaty garments into my suitcase. They must have transferred Noah this morning, which means we’re headed north.
I make it outside fifteen minutes before the appointed time, giving my imagination ample opportunity to run wild. What if Carmen didn’t write that text? What if someone else shows up in our car? Quico Ortega, perhaps. It could be a setup. I must be a forlorn sight indeed, a massively pregnant woman perched on her suitcase, awaiting her doom in the shade of a hotel awning.
At a quarter to one—late! painfully late!—Noah’s car pulls into the parking lot. I don’t get a look at the driver, but when the car stops in front of me, passenger-side out, I know it’s not Carmen. She’s riding shotgun, her shoulders hunched up strangely, guarded. Our eyes meet, and there’s a flash of dread, pure dread, when she sees me.
A warning? Who the hell is driving that car?
“Can I help you with your bag, ma’am?”
It takes a moment for me to realize that it’s him, that it’s Noah offering me his services with a lopsided grin.
He looks exhausted, his eyes pink and glazed from lack of sleep. And he’s scruffy, too, his face scratchy against me as he buries his head in my hair. My body goes limp at his touch, all the tension spilling out in an embarrassing display of tears. Has it really only been two days?
“Aw, honey.” Noah brushes his thumb across my cheek. “We got through it. Don’t cry.”
The parking lot is a sea of concrete and glaring sunlight reflecting off vehicles. Across the street, IHOP seems to be doing a brisk business. Not the most romantic setting for a reunion, but I’ll take it.
Still, I don’t want to get my hopes up.
“Are you out? Are you really out, or just on bail?”
“I’m really out. They dropped all charges.”
I exhale. “Hallelujah. I thought I was going to have to be a single parent again.”
“No, no, no. You really think I’d miss the birth of my baby girl?” He says it like he had some choice in the matter, like he’s personally responsible for his own release. As he moves in for a kiss, I’m suddenly aware of Carmen still sitting in the car, inspecting her fingernails, trying not to watch us. I feel a twinge of guilt, an odd current of anger on her behalf. He doesn’t have to rub it in.
I duck the kiss and hand him my suitcase.
Carmen steps from the car, offering up her seat to me the way one might for a pregnant woman on the subway. “I’ll sit in back,” she says, and with that one act—allowing me the front seat in a car that was half hers just a year ago—I know how wrong I’ve been to fear her. Whatever Carmen’s feelings for Noah may be, she knows it’s over. And she’s much too proud to ever lick her wounds in public.
I don’t know what to say as we climb into the vehicle, but I need to recognize this woman somehow. “Carmen . . . I wish I knew how you pulled this off.”
“No idea.” She smooths out the bottom of her dress. “Unless Customs and Border Protection thought it would be impolitic to drag Mexican government officials into Noah’s little mess.”
My eyes widen. “You told them about Quico?”
“I made a few calls.” She’s underplaying it; a stunt like this took a lot more than a few calls. No wonder she never made it home last night.
“What did you say?”
“Just that if CBP reviewed their video footage of Friday afternoon, they’d have clear evidence that a Mexican official was aware of the drugs Noah had on him.”
Oh God, I think. Quico’s not going to like this.
“I also mentioned an exposé you’re writing on government corruption in Nogales,” she continues, “and suggested that it might be simpler to maintain good border relations if they released your companion. With a promise that your story wouldn’t go public, of course.” She raises a delicate eyebrow. “I assume you can agree to that?”
“Yes. Of course.”
Noah frowns. “What’s this about corrupt Mexican officials? If there’s shady business goin’ on in Nogales, maybe Charlie should be writin’ about it.”
I tap him gently on the thigh to shut him up. “Later. I’ll explain later. Right now, the only thing you need to know is that we owe Carmen. Big-time.” I give him a severe look. “I’d say a thank-you is in order.”
Noah scratches his neck, suddenly embarrassed by his debt. “Thanks, Car.”
In the back of the SUV, Carmen shrugs.
“We should celebrate,” I say. “Can we take you somewhere, Carmen? We’re heading back to Tucson, right? There must be something fun on the way.”
Her fingers fly across the screen of her iPhone, already booking a ticket. “Just the airport, thanks.”
• • •
BACK IN TUCSON, we drop Carmen off six hours early for an evening flight. She has work to catch up on, she says, and the airport will have good Wi-Fi. Though I’m not at all certain that tiny airport will have decent connectivity, I let it slide. If she wants to get away from us that badly, I won’t stop her.
All Noah wants is a decent shower and a bed, so we get a room at a chain hotel near the airport that he’s amassed frequent-sleeper points with. I let Noah rid himself of all the institutional grime before I attempt to broach any serious topics with him. My motives are not purely altruistic; he acquired an odor in captivity that I’m eager for him to lose, a pungent blend of sweaty strangers living in unnaturally close quarters and without access to deodorant. Only when he has scrubbed away the last of these way-too-manly fumes and stands in front of the mirror, shaving, do I finally tell him my news.
“I found the bathroom. I found the shower.”
He glances over his shoulder at the hotel shower, failing to catch my drift.
“Not this one,” I clarify. “The one in my dream.”
He stops shaving and peers at my reflection in the mirror, his eyebrows knit. “Are you sayin’—”
“I saw the place where Lety died.”
Noah doesn’t move. His chin is still covered in shaving cream, the razor in his frozen hand pointed upward. “You went back into Nogales?” he says. “Without me?”
“I had to. Lety kept visiting me, she wasn’t going to let it rest—”
“You could’ve died.” He turns on me slowly, and I watch it hit, the wave of fear and anger at the outrageous chance I took in his absence. �
�Damn it, Charlie, what is wrong with you? How am I supposed to trust you when you pull shit like this? They could’ve killed you and the baby both! You couldn’t stay away from that hotel for forty-eight frickin’ hours?”
“Wait, wait, wait.” My eyes narrow as the full meaning of his words registers. “You knew that bathroom was in Marilena’s hotel? How the hell did you know that?”
His anger flickers for a second, not yielding, but erecting defenses against my imminent attack. “Marilena’s kid told me. When I asked him about Lety. He said she stayed at the hotel for a while. That she died there. Room two.”
I remember his long exchange with the boy at the hotel and feel all the color draining from me. “You knew and didn’t tell me? You knew?” That whole terrifying scene with Marilena could’ve been avoided.
“I was gonna tell you once we made it back to Tucson, except . . . we never made it back to Tucson.”
“Noah, you asshole! I went in that place alone! Why didn’t you say something?”
“Because I know you!” he retorts. “Because as soon as you found out she died there, you’d want to go. And it was obviously a dangerous place to be.”
“So dangerous you didn’t even warn me!” I grab a hand towel off the sink and throw it furiously on the floor, where it lands with an unintimidating foop. The gesture is much less satisfying than I’d anticipated. “What about that whole visit to Treasure Island? Did you seriously let me wander around some skeevy strip joint trying to question these poor exploited women about something you already knew the answer to? Oh my God, I hate you!”
Noah has resumed shaving in brisk, semiviolent strokes down his jawline. “We were tryin’ to find out who killed Lety, not where they did it. And we still don’t know that, do we? Or why.”
