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“It’s about Tyler’s father—”
“Are you kidding me?” I asked. “We haven’t spoken in weeks and this is—”
“He was arrested in Los Angeles. He had the Pacific Diamond in his possession.”
TYLER
I sat on the floor, watching the two demolished kids on my couch clutching at each other just to stay afloat. I tried to prioritize, slot the different terrible aspects of Miguel’s story into manageable holes. Things that needed to be dealt with.
Louisa didn’t seem to have anything more than a black eye and a fat lip, as fucking horrible as that was - the hospital could wait.
“You think Ramon is dead?” I asked after Miguel managed to get out the whole nightmarish story. Dead bodies seemed like they should be step one.
“I hit him really hard. The bottle broke everywhere,” Miguel whispered, his eyes on Louisa, who was beginning to doze against her brother. It was getting late and the little girl had been through so much. “But it’s not like I stuck around to check.”
“You were protecting your sister,” I said, putting my hand on Miguel’s shoulder. Miguel’s eyes closed, tears streaming down his cheeks. “You did what any good big brother would do. Do you hear me, Miguel?”
Miguel nodded, stroking his sister’s hands with his bloody fingers.
I didn’t know how my heart could hurt more, how I could look at this brave and scared boy and love him any more than I did.
I wanted to sweep both of these kids up in my arms, keep them safe.
“I’m going to take care of this,” I said, and stood.
I dug my cell phone out of my pocket and called Juliette—she would know what to do. But her message clicked on.
“Call me,” I said. “It’s urgent.”
I tried the station next, asking the man who answered the phone if Juliette was still there.
“She left about ten minutes ago,” he said, which meant that Juliette had to be at home. I didn’t have that number. How stupid was that?
Did she even have a home phone? I texted her 911 just as thunderous knocking on my front door rattled the windows.
“Open up!” a man yelled. “Police!”
I heard Miguel scramble in the living room and I raced down the hall, hoping to catch him before he ran.
“Calm down,” I said to the totally freaked out boy, though my own nerves were about to snap. “Take your sister and go upstairs.”
“What are you going to do?” Miguel asked, helping his sister to her feet.
“Don’t worry,” I said, because I wasn’t all that sure. “I’ll think of something.”
The kids headed upstairs and there was more knocking, this time accompanied by muffled Spanish.
I lifted the lace curtain in the living room a fraction of an inch and caught a glimpse of the men on the porch.
Owens. Great.
And Ramon, holding a bath towel to his head.
At least he wasn’t dead, but I was inflated by a bright red and burning hot need to spill more of that man’s blood. To take every pain Ramon had inflicted on these children and return it—doubled—upon him.
I dug my wallet from my back pocket and flipped it open, flinging cards on the floor until I found what I wanted.
I sent a quick prayer heavenward and called in the cavalry—Nora Sullivan.
Luckily, she was working late and once she was filled in on the situation, she was practically out the door.
“Just keep Ramon away from those kids. Do whatever you need to, but keep those kids away from their father and out of jail.”
With my orders in mind and the kids safely upstairs, I tossed open the front door, sickened by the men that stood there.
“Owens,” I said with a sneer. “Can I ask why you’re stinking up my brand-new porch?”
“Watch it, Tyler,” Owens said, hooking a thumb between his gut and his gun belt. “We’re here on police business.”
“Where are my kids?” Ramon shouted, his wide, dark face streaked with blood, his eyes poisoned with anger.
I clenched my fists, trying to keep myself under control, trying to stall for time so Nora could get here. “They’re not here,” I said, and stepped back to slam the door, but Owens quickly got a foot in the door.
“Hold on a second, Tyler. I got some questions—”
“I know they’re in there!” Ramon shouted. “Miguel spends more time here than he does at home. You’re trying to steal my kids—”
“Steal!” I cried. “Like you care, you drunk son of a bitch—”
“Hey now,” Owens said, holding up a hand, but Ramon tossed aside the bloody towel and charged me, and I met him with a joyful heart and a serious right hook.
Ramon stumbled and I launched myself forward, knocking the man to the ground. My veins humming with bloodlust, I straddled the man and punched him, feeling the cartilage in Roman’s nose go to mush, sending blood spraying across the white porch.
