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Searching the glove box, she easily located the envelope and took it back to her room, where she shut herself in the bathroom to read it.
At first glance, it looked like a letter from Manuel. She instantly recognized his jagged scrawl. But closer inspection revealed that it was a photocopy of something he’d written and not a letter at all—a list of names, addresses, phone numbers and a few dates.
Someone, presumably Juanita, had jotted a quick note in Spanish at the bottom of the page:
Si él te encuentra…If he finds you.
Perplexed, Emma examined the names. Where had Juanita found this? In Manuel’s office? It was possible. While Manuel typically kept his office locked against Emma and Max, he allowed Juanita to clean in there occasionally.
But Emma had mentioned to Juanita, several times, that she believed Manuel’s business wasn’t quite what it seemed. Juanita had never let on that she agreed.
So who were the people on this list? Several lived in Mexico. Some lived in San Diego. One had no address.
Did she finally have proof of what she’d long suspected?
Juanita’s note was too cryptic to tell. On several occasions, Emma had overheard Manuel’s family talking about shipments and carriers and accidents in the desert. But those few snippets of conversation hardly proved that Manuel was involved in anything illegal. And although she’d been as vigilant as possible, looking for some kind of leverage, she’d never been able to find anything more damning.
Returning the paper to its envelope, Emma tucked it away in her purse. She needed to decide carefully what to do with it. If this paper was what she believed, it could mean her freedom—or maybe her death.
FINALLY, AT ABOUT ONE o’clock, the exhaustion of the day overcame Emma and she slept. But only for two hours. At three, the alarm clock woke her to test Max’s glucose levels.
Almost too tired to move, she hit the button that would stop the ringing, dragged herself out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom. She’d left his testing kit on the counter so she could find it without rummaging through everything. But her eyes were too grainy to open all the way. Especially once she flipped on the light.
Hunching over the sink, she splashed water onto her face. Then she wiped her hands, inserted a test strip into the glucose meter and retrieved the lancet that would draw blood from the end of Max’s finger. She hated poking him. For her, that was the worst part of his daily care. The three or more injections weren’t half as bad as continually pricking the sensitive pads of his little fingers.
But the ramifications of not testing were even worse. Blood sugar that was too high or too low could kill him, and he could go either way unexpectedly and very quickly. So she did what she had to do.
Moving into the bedroom, she gently pulled her son’s small hand from beneath the blankets, pressed the lancet to the end of his index finger and tripped the spring. He winced but didn’t wake. A moment later, she was able to squeeze out a drop of bright red blood, which was quickly drawn into the edge of the test strip. Then she stood, sleepily scratching her head as she waited for the reading.
When the meter beeped, she held it up to the light coming from the bathroom. Two hundred and eight-four. He was a hundred and eight-four points too high. She hadn’t compensated for his lack of exercise as well as she’d hoped. But he didn’t show any visible symptoms when his glucose levels fell in this range, no sweating or blotchiness, so it was difficult to know.
Fresh worry gnawed at her as she headed back into the bathroom to draw up more insulin. She pictured the blood circulating through her son’s body as a thick sludge that was damaging his eyes and his kidneys—and possibly his nerve endings and heart. Somehow she had to do better in accounting for all the variables. She was his only defense. But just when she thought she’d figured out how his body processed certain foods, he’d grow and everything would change.
Tears sprang to her eyes, tears she fought so she could read the tiny marks on the syringe. She was responding to the effects of stress and exhaustion as much as the daily concern she felt for her son. She knew that—just as she knew crying wouldn’t solve anything.
Max whimpered when she pinched the back of his arm and inserted the needle. But afterward he rolled over and continued to sleep.
She dropped the syringe into her sharps container and sat on the bed, lightly running a hand over his short crew cut. Already interested in copying the older boys he saw in their neighborhood and on TV, he insisted on putting gel in his hair to make it spiky. She smiled as she remembered him coming downstairs wearing a T-shirt he’d cut at the bottom and sleeves to mimic the young man who cleaned their pool.
Max meant everything to her. She wished she could take the finger pricks and injections for him.
Suddenly she realized that the television next door had been turned off. At last. The peace and quiet felt almost profound. Getting up, she crossed the room to check the car again and saw someone outside.
Her heart jumped into her throat. But another look showed her it was only Preston, standing in front of his room.
What was he doing?
She watched him for several minutes. He was smoking and staring into space.
He’s like me. He can’t sleep. But he appeared to be more than restless. He appeared…desolate, which struck her as odd for someone so young, fit and handsome.
She recalled Maude’s words: He’s really been through the wringer. What had happened to him?
It was really none of Emma’s business. She needed to go to bed so she could get up early and leave this place. But empathy and her own need for human interaction warred with her common sense. Maybe she should reach out to him, somehow help him get through the night. It might help her at the same time. One night wasn’t much, but Emma knew that when it was late and dark and lonely like this, one night could drag on forever.
Grabbing her protective spray just in case, she propped a shoe in the door so it wouldn’t shut and stepped out. “Having trouble sleeping?” she asked, being careful to hide the can behind her back.
He hadn’t turned when she opened her door. He didn’t glance over at her now. “Always.”
She inched a little closer, trying to seem casual and relaxed. “They make sleeping pills for that, you know.”
He took another drag on his cigarette, letting the silence stretch as he leaned against one of the posts that supported the overhang. After a few seconds, he turned his head to study her. “Are you interested in a smoke?”
“No.”
