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I put the envelope of cash in my purse and my suitcase in the car, and I collect the paintings I brought home from class yesterday. I grab my few paint supplies from the cottage and download the pictures I took of Winnie’s portrait onto my laptop, leaving the iPhone on the kitchen counter. I don’t want any of his gifts.
Pausing at my car, I press my lips together. This is a problem. Taking this car is maintaining a connection… But I have to get to El Paso.
My brow furrows, and I exhale a growl, looking up at the enormous mansion towering over me. “Fine, you fucking win this round.”
I’m going to take this car for now, but it’s not mine. I won’t give him any power over me. It’s not my will that takes this vehicle, it’s my need.
And I need to be wit
h my love.
19
Deacon
Beto’s alive.
Cloud shadows drift across the Franklin Mountains as I sit and watch from the balcony of Skeeter’s El Paso home. The minutes crawl as I wait for her to arrive. She texted me on a gas break that she was making good time, but my insides ache with needing to see her.
After Beto was shot and Mateo carried him out… and Angel screamed at me to go, I struggled with what to do. His blood was on my clothes and hands, and I had to at least get clean.
Stopping at an old-school gas station, I used the dirty restroom to strip out of my shirt, doing my best to wash my hands and arms in the tiny stream of water coming from the sink.
Wearing only my jacket and jeans, I sped along Interstate 20 contemplating my next steps. Shock drove me. For all I knew, I’d just killed a man. I’d lost my love, I’d lost everything.
How could Angel ever forgive me for killing her brother?
My life was over.
Closing my eyes briefly, I leaned harder on the throttle as grief washed over me. When I opened them again, I saw the sign for new developments in Fate, and I knew what I had to do.
Before I went away. I had to be sure the past would be made right, and I didn’t trust Winnie to do it. Leaning forward into the rain, over the handlebars of my bike, I set a course for El Paso. Rich was working on this, but I had to find the truth about the past. I owed that much to Angel and her family—especially if Beto were dead because of me.
Now Angel’s saying he’s alive. He’s going to recover… And she doesn’t hate me.
Standing, I walk along the balcony willing time to move faster.
The French doors open, and Rich walks out holding two beers. “Drink something before you get heat stroke.”
Taking one, I rub the back of my neck. “Not sure this is the right choice for dehydration.”
“It’s been a rough twenty-four hours. You just got some great news. Beer is the right choice.”
“I’m not a killer.”
“I never thought you were.” He leans back, taking a long sip of Modelo. “If a guy comes at you with a gun, that is not murder. It’s self-defense.”
“Yes, but I broke into his house.”
“You were the guest of his sister, who is an adult and invited you there.”
Taking a drink, I nod, wiping my lips with the back of my hand. “Then she screamed at me to get out.” Flashbacks of the blood, of Angel crying on her knees… all of it hits me like a sucker punch. “I’m a fucking fool.”
“Ease up on my friend Deacon.” He’s joking, but I’m not.
“I actually thought I’d introduce myself to her family, tell them we were in love and wanted to marry. I thought they’d welcome us with open arms. We’d have a party, a big wedding. Happy ever fucking after.”
“You’ve always been a cocky bastard.”
