Page 179 of Damián

“Damián Soto,” I say, offering my hand. “This is my mother’s house. Where is everyone? What do you know?”

“Chief Iacob Sobczak,” he says, shaking my hand. “The house is empty. Even though there are signs of a fight and blood, there is no sign of anyone being dragged away, and the amount of blood found isn’t deadly. Wherever your family is, they are most likely alive.”

“I will need your team to send me three bullets—”

BZZT! BZZT!

My phone vibrates in my hand. I turn it around, check the screen, and see an emergency text from Alexios.

ALEXIOS: Everyone safe. Greenwood 24.

I look at Iacob. “Chief, I hope you understand that I need to leave.”

The chief nods, takes out a department business card, and hands it to me.

“Call this number whenever you are free so we can add you to the investigation.”

“Thank you.”

— ¤ —

When I reach the apartment, my hands shake as I type in the security code. The lock clicks open, and I throw the door back, stepping into the entryway.

“Mamá! Fernanda!” I scream, and I can hear my voice echoing down the hall.

I run down the corridor, checking the kitchen and the side rooms, my chest tightening with every second of silence.

I burst into the living room, ready for the worst, but instead I find my mother and my sister, huddled close together on a sofa, watching a Telenovela.

“¡Mamá! ¡Fer!” Both of their heads turn to me instantly.

“¡Damián!” They jump up from the sofa and run across the room, and I throw my arms around them.

I hug them, burying my face into my mother’s hair while keeping my arm locked around Fernanda’s shoulders.

I hold them tight… maybe a bit too tight, but I can’t let go. I need to feel the reality of them to believe they are actually here.

That they are okay.

I step back and begin checking my mother for injuries. “Are you okay? Look at me, are either of you hurt? Did they touch you?”

“We’re fine, mijo.”

“You can stop shaking. You look like a paint mixer,” Fernanda says with a grin.

“What the hell happened?” I ask them.

“I was at the house alone, preparing food,” my mother explains, moving her hands around as she always does when she talks about something intense. “Then a young man arrived at the door. He told me he was a friend of yours, and that we had to leave through the back door right away because bad people were coming.”

“A friend?” I ask, frowning.

My family knows all the Harknetts, so it makes no sense why she would call them a friend instead of using their name.

“You mean Harry?”

“No, your super cute friend,” Fernanda says, and now I am even more confused.

I don’t have any cute friends.