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My brother huffs a laugh, and his arms drop. He turns and starts up the driveway, but at a slower pace than his usual forceful swagger.
“Beto!” I call after him. “Call off your dog.”
“Mateo does what he wants. I have no control over him.”
My heart beats faster as I watch him walk away. “If anything happens to Deacon, I’ll tell them you were responsible.”
Sickness is in my throat. I don’t like making such threats against my brother, but I have to keep the father of my baby safe.
He pauses, and without turning, calls to me. “And I’ll tell them how I was really shot.”
“You came at him with a gun.”
“He was a trespasser in my house.”
I’ve been dreaming of my baby, of Deacon’s face when I tell him, since I left the Waffle House bathroom, but now I’m afraid. I don’t know how to make my brother do what I want.
We’re in the car, and Lourdes watches me with wide eyes. “Mateo’s after Deacon?”
“Do you know where Mateo lives?”
She shakes her head no. “I met him for the first time after Beto came back. He came with him from Mexico.”
My head hurts, and my stomach is churning. I’ve got to get to a bathroom or I’m going to blow my cover in front of my bestie. Rolling down the window, I let the cool night air caress my forehead, and I wonder where Deacon is right now.
I need to get to him.
23
Deacon
“The oldest records we have in this building only go back twenty years.” The woman kneels before an open drawer in a long filing cabinet. “My guess is you need something older than that.”
She’s skinny, and her stringy, light-blonde hair is twisted in a little knot at the back of her head with a pencil stuck in it. She looks up at us through metal-rimmed glasses. I watch with frustration as her fingers crawl along the manila folders, occasionally pausing to open one.
“I’m actually surprised these are still here.” She lifts out another folder then drops it back. “The county gets rid of the old records on a yearly basis.”
“Gets rid of?” Rich takes a step forward. “What does that mean? Shreds?”
“They’re considered historical record, so they’re not shredded. They might as well be.” She straightens with an exhale. “They store everything in a warehouse off Tenth Street. It’s old, deteriorating. Rat-infested.”
Rich grimaces at me, but I’m excited.
I give him a nod, and he rubs his hand through his shaggy blond hair. He’s dressed in jeans and a polo shirt today, which means he hasn’t been in the office. I’m in jeans and a dark tee, and I’m not going anywhere until we get some answers.
“Would it be possible for us to go there and look around?” His tone is far more relaxed than mine would be.
The woman stands with a grunt, pushing the heavy file drawer closed. “You’ve got to have a license to poke around in there, or permission from court.”
We follow her back to the front of the building.
I can’t stand it anymore. “Aren’t those covered by Freedom of Information?”
“Some are. Some files are not. In the warehouse, they’re all together, and nobody’s there to make sure you’re not poking around in other people’s business.”
Rich exhales a laugh, leaning on his elbow on the front counter. “Aw, come on, Mary. You’ve known me long enough to trust me with other people’s business.”
She cocks her hip to the side and squints an eye first at me, then at him. “I wouldn’t go that far, but here’s what I’ll do.”
