“What the fuck are you doing?” I ask, and it comes out as a whisper instead of a demand. I can feel the earth moving beneath us, swiftly tilting into tomorrow. I haven’t felt this unmoored in a moment since I was fifteen.
Andrews opens his mouth as if to speak again, his fingertips still trembling slightly in either desperation to touch me or urgency to pull away. But he’s as thrown by the energy of this moment as I am, if not more so. This isn’t how his big plan was supposed to go.
Then I blink, and he’s gone.
Chapter Fourteen
Andrews
I run down all fourteen flights of stairs, slam the door behind me, and squint into the morning sun.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I’ve been driven by a singular purpose for well over a year, and now that it’s literally within reach, I can’t do it.
I reached out to touch Miel Conde, to hurt her, and I couldn’t do it. I can’t explain why. In that moment, it was as if we were each the wrong end of a magnet, that last fraction of space between us impossible to close, pushing and pushing and pushing. But we’re not magnets, we’re people, and I have full control over my own body. So why the fuck couldn’t I touch her?
I kick at a clump of trash that last night’s rain collected at the curb, and all that I accomplish is getting mud on my shoe. The muggy morning presses down on me, wrapping itself around my bare shoulders, sinking its claws in deep.
This little corner of the city is empty of crowds, the only sound in the air the noise of construction a few blocks over. In time, this block too will be crawling with workers. Until then, no one will find us here. And after I’ve done my dirty work, no one will find Miel Conde’s body in the rubble.
For some reason, the thought crawls around under my skin, making me shudder even in the heat. I hadn’t let myself contemplate that part of the plan too much in advance, because that’s not the kind of man I am. I’m not a murderer. But I was never a stalker or kidnapper or torturer before, either, so I had figured that part would eventually come naturally to me, too. And that after I exorcised this vicious darkness inside of me, I could go back to being not this kind of man. But now that the object of my obsession is in my grasp, close enough to smell her faint coconut scent and count her long lashes, things aren’t really falling into place the way they were supposed to. I’m not falling into place the way I was supposed to.
I collapse onto a dry patch of sidewalk and tilt my face upwards. I can see the dim light of the sun through my closed eyelids, and feel its heat sinking into my skin. I trace my scar, hot once more, but not tender. I bring to mind the memories of this woman carving into me, of the vile look in her eyes as she ignored my pleas for mercy. She is a monster, and she deserves to pay for her crimes. And everyone knows it takes a monster to defeat a monster.
One way or another, I’m taking Miel Conde down.
I have to.
Chapter Fifteen
Miel
I don’t know how long Andrews is gone. Long enough for my arms to go numb and for my throat to dry out. Long enough for me to complete the grief cycle and land on acceptance.
I’m going to die here, and soon.
Not that I’ll go down without a fight, of course. Andrews isn’t as comfortable in the dealing of pain and death as I am, and I’m going to make it as hard on him as possible.
But I hold no illusions that it will make a difference. I’ve already survived twice as long as I should have. Everyone’s time comes eventually, and I’m going out the same way I lived. Cold, heartless, and unforgiving.
It’s almost completely dark outside when the elevator doors ding open, and a bright light floods out. I’m still blinking into the ball of fluorescence—just bright enough to light up a small bubble around us, but not enough to be noticeable through the windows—as Andrews circles me with a wide berth and sets the camping lamp next to the bare mattress. In his other hand, I see a plastic bag holding a styrofoam clamshell box. Food.
Andrews must have found a shirt on his journey, and it looks like he changed into fresh jeans as well. I suddenly feel suffocated by my own clothing, my shirt sticking to my sweaty back, my toes pinching in their boots. My eye makeup must be smeared all over my face, and my breath is thick enough to taste. Damn if I don’t miss my rain shower at the Palacios estate.
Cold water sprinkling down from above, bodies pressing in from all sides. A dozen naked, strung-out girls trying uselessly to scrub off their misfortune.
“Open up.”
I blink, and Andrews is in front of me. The unbidden memory threatens to linger, but I push it back into its little box, the one that I had successfully kept locked for decades. Until now.
The big man is towering over me again, but this time, there is no charge in the air. His face is cautiously blank as he unscrews the top from a water bottle and gestures it at me with the impatience of a man who must have already tried this a moment ago. I briefly consider refusing, but bodily instinct pushes me forward. I part my chapped lips, and he presses the plastic ring against them. The water is lukewarm, and my whole body responds to it, like a limp houseplant straightening and stretching back to life. I suckle on the nozzle, and Andrews keeps tilting the bottle up, and then I make the mistake of looking at him. His eyes are hooded, and he’s drinking in this view of me as thirstily as I’m drinking the water. I immediately jerk back, and water splashes on the front of my shirt before Andrews can right the bottle. For a split second, the sensation is cooling, but it quickly turns into just another uncomfortable damp spot. Andrews has his back turned to me again, tossing the half empty bottle onto the floor.
“Have you decided what you’re going to do with me?” I ask, my voice still coming out a little raspy. “Cut me, hit me, burn me? I’m happy to lend my expertise, if needed.”
He doesn’t respond to my taunting, though the way he opens the plastic bag seems awfully measured.
“Did you get any liquor while you were out? That should help you find the balls to get your hands dirty, pig.”
I didn’t used to have a mouth on me, not until Javier put a gun in my hands. Turns out that if you give me the upper hand, I suddenly have a lot to say. I’m going to miss that, the feeling of telling your mark exactly what you’re about to do to them, adding snarky insult to bloody injury. I don’t know why I’m speaking now, egging on my own captor. I’m not trying to call his bluff, because I believe him when he says he’s going to punish me. I’ve seen the look in his eye and recognized the same darkness I feel inside myself daily. He’s been hurt, and he wants revenge. I paid my own pain forward. He’s sticking to old-fashioned retribution.
The squeak of styrofoam, the crinkle of tin foil, and he’s turning back to me. He’s holding a Cubano, the smell of which quickly floods the space, making my mouth water. Fuck my stupid bodily needs, always betraying me.
“Here,” Andrews says, approaching me again. “Shut up and take a bite.”
He holds the warm sandwich up to my mouth, and I only hesitate a moment before biting in. The tart flavor isn’t my favorite, but I’ve always been a beggar, never a chooser. He offers me another bite, and then another, and then my bottom lip brushes his thumb as he feeds me. It’s a minuscule touch, so brief it could have gone unnoticed, but for some reason its subtlety only makes it more powerful. The tickle shoots through my skeleton like electricity, and I actually shudder. I pull back quickly, and despite the remaining hollow in my stomach, I shake my head when he tries to give me another bite.
I manage to stay silent as Andrews returns the half-eaten sandwich to the box and wipes the mustard off his hands with a napkin. But when he turns back around, not quite meeting my eyes as he gives me just enough rope that I can lie on the bare ground, I can’t resist.
“Are you gonna do the fucking job yet? Or are you ready for my breakfast order?”
I don’t get an answer, of course. I just get left in absolute darkness as Andrews flips the lamp off and walks away.
&nb
sp; Chapter Sixteen
Andrews
I can’t stand to be in close proximity to Miel, so I get in the Mazda and head into town. If I can’t crack my captive quite yet, I can at least get the lowdown on what she’s been up to since we last met.
“Reggie, my man,” my old buddy from the Academy says by way of greeting, shaking my hand and pulling me in for a thumping of the back, the way men skirt the lines of hugging. Lou Esposito hasn’t aged a day since I last saw him eight years ago, but he’s certainly gotten a lot tanner.
“Thanks for meeting me,” I half-shout over the din of the bar. I’ve found a booth tucked into a quiet corner, hoping the illusion of privacy and the fact that this is by no means a cop bar will loosen my friend’s tongue. I already know he can hold his liquor too well for that to be a strategy.
“Yeah, of course,” Lou says, with that melting-pot accent of his. “What brings you to Miami?”
“Chasing a lead,” I reply, and my old friend doesn’t question the statement. I’ve always been like a dog with a bone, even in the Academy. “Do you know the club downtown, Hard Candy?”
Lou snorts. “Are you chasing a lead, or chasing ass?”
I manage to force a grin through my mouthful of rum-and-coke. The icy mix is watered down, weak, but the sprinkling of cheap swill in the soda is shitty enough to burn the whole way down.
“If you’re looking for trouble at Hard Candy, you’re going to find it,” Lou goes on, knocking back his own drink like it’s water. “They keep their shit locked down tight, though. We’ve never been able to bust them on anything.”
When everyone knows a place is trouble but they somehow keep slipping through the cracks, that means dirty cops. They’re fucking everywhere. “What goes on in there? Drugs, pros?”
“If you ask me, dudes dancing around in Speedos for horny moms is worse than hooking, but no. I’m pretty sure they’re washing.”
Money laundering at a strip club, how novel. “Washing for who?”
I don’t miss the way Lou’s eyes dart to the sides before he answers with a single word, in a voice a touch more subdued than before.
“King.”
There’s something about the way he places the name on the table between us, with tight lips and finality, that tells me I’m not going to get much more on the subject. It’s the way cops back home talk about El Sombrerón, or rather, don’t talk about him. Every city has a Voldemort.
I knew Miel was up to no good, but this information changes things. If Hard Candy is a crucial part of the operation, then her disappearance could be noticed. The only question is, how disposable is this woman? Is this just another time that Miel Conde gets tossed like trash, with no one left to miss her, no one who wants her back? How many lives does she have left before even she can’t crawl her way back under my skin?
“So is Hard Candy one of his big players?” I ask. I don’t bother being too casual about it. There’s no pretense here. We both know I want Lou’s information more than his company.
“Eh, I don’t think so,” Lou says, scrubbing the back of his neck nervously. It doesn’t sound like he’s hiding anything, though. “He’s got half the city washing for him, that’s the problem. Take down one of his spots, three more pop up. Hydra shit.”
I nod thoughtfully, already more relieved. I’m not sure how much more Lou can give me. He’s in Robbery, a hotbed for gang kids but hardly the territory of real Organized Crime.
“Why?” he asks, knocking back the last of his gin-and-tonic and waving down a server for more. “Why are you so interested in that club specifically?”
Oh, I could give less of a shit about Hard Candy itself, but it’s not like I can tell my old friend about the girl I currently have hostage.
“Chasing a lead,” I repeat, and Lou raises a thick brow. He wants more. I shave off a thread of truth. “I’m looking for a suspect that might work there.”
“So the APD is crossing state lines,” Lou notes, taking his new drink from a passing server without a second glance. I resist the urge to roll my eyes. The pissing match is a waste of time, but cops get real territorial about jurisdiction shit, real fast.
“It’s, uh, personal,” I admit. Now that kind of rule bending, Lou won’t give a shit about.
Sure enough, he shakes his head at me in disbelief, but there’s a smile on his face.
“You must be some fucking detective,” he says, almost sincerely. “For them to still let you get away with this shit.”
My own expression falters, but I meet his glass to cheers the statement. I was a damn good detective, but in the end, that wasn’t enough to save me from myself.
Chapter Seventeen
Miel
I sleep about as well as anyone would in my literal and figurative position. Sleep comes in fits and bursts, interspersed with jolts of claustrophobia and pain. It’s not the physical agony that begins to get to me, though. It’s what happens in those moments of unconsciousness, which somehow last an eternity in my head.
I dream.
No.
I remember.
I’m eight and begging for answers as the sound of my mother shouting my name fades away. A guy in uniform, the kind my teacher said I’m supposed to go to when I need help, grabs my chin hard enough to hurt and forces me to look him in the face as he speaks. The sharp edge in those blue eyes is scarier than his hands on me.
“Shut the fuck up, you little rat. You’re never going to see your wetback mother again. I’m gonna—”
I’ve spent a lifetime with my experiences on automatic self-destruct. Shit happens, and before it even registers in my mind, it’s gone. Locked up, locked out, locked down. Never to be seen again.
Until now.
I’m fifteen and ramming my fingers down my throat, praying I won’t lose any of my meager lunch. Alejandro stands over me, impatient, lips pulling thinner every minute that his precious balloon full of coke remains inside me. It’s not the coke that he wants, not really, despite the telling barrage of sniffles. What he wants is the stacks of cash that wait just outside of this supply closet, all his as soon as I cough up the goods.
“I swear to god, pendeja, if you don’t get that shit out right now, I’ll beat—”
Something about the events of the past twenty-four hours triggered something in me, loosened the bolts on the mental steel trap my whole life hinges on. The only way I can get through the days is by forgetting. If too many memories come back, they’ll kill me before Andrews gets the chance to. I can already feel my edges unraveling as is.
I’m twenty-two and drinking a beer with my best friend, my brother. The lukewarm liquid does nothing to take the edge off, and I try to tell myself I’d rather be lucid than strung out. We don’t say much, merely taking what little comfort we can from each other’s presence. Some of the other guys stumble in, and they’ve been drinking something a lot stronger than beer.
“Hey, puto, don’t fucking touch her,” Javier starts when one of them gets too close to me. I’m already shutting down. I don’t need booze or drugs to cut myself off from my body anymore.
“Why the hell not? She’s just a—”
If I didn’t know better, I’d think that this was somehow my captor’s doing. He still hasn’t touched me, hasn’t hurt me physically, but this torture is a thousand times worse than anything he could think to do to my body. I wake up drenched in cold sweat and gasping for breath, my lungs on the verge of screaming. It’s too much. After decades of stony nothingness, even one memory would be too much, but all of them? Can you literally drown in your own feelings? Fear, anger, pain, self-hatred, and loneliness storm through my body until I’m consumed, until I can’t breathe, until it knocks me out cold. Then I wake up, and go through it all over again. I’m being emotionally waterboarded. I think I could fight the physical event for a bit, but I’m ready to do whatever it takes to make this particular torture end.
I’d do anything.
I’m struck again by the bone-deep urge to e
scape, not to flee my bindings or fight my captor, but to escape, truly escape. It’s time to admit that there’s nothing left for me. All the money in the world couldn’t make me whole, couldn’t bring me joy or comfort or a full night of sleep. I’m a dead girl, and dead girls don’t heal. They rot.
So what am I even fighting for?
Chapter Eighteen
Andrews
When I get back to the fourteenth floor after spending the night in my Mazda, Miel is coiled into a tight ball on the bare floor. The bindings keep her arms tight, but judging from the deep sleep she seems to be in, exhaustion is outweighing the pain. I know the feeling. I can’t remember not being tired. Fatigue has become part of my DNA, twisted up into all the other little things that make me who I am. Even sleep isn’t enough, especially the kind I’ve been getting over the past few months, but the body has to tap out eventually.
Soon, I remind myself. Soon I will be done here, done with her, and back to my old life. Back to the best mattress my mediocre salary can provide, shitty vending-machine coffee, and long midnight drives to go look at dead bodies.
Maybe I’m doomed to forever be running on fumes.
I consider waking my captive, but I still haven’t decided exactly what I want to do with her, and thinking about my exhaustion has only made it worse. I’m too tired to play her games right now.
My games.
I sink into the cheap mattress and close my eyes. I have to lie diagonally so that my feet won’t hang off the edge, and the springs loudly strain under my weight. I wish I got to keep her in a bougie wine cellar instead of this condemned box of concrete, like she did me. It just goes to show, the bad guys get all the gold and the glory, and us good guys get fucking fired.
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