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To my relief, the report doesn’t offer up any pictures of me, but instead bounces back to Mac just prior to the fight, during a press conference.
His interactions with King are competitive, as expected, perhaps even a little staged. I don’t believe someone from King’s camp put the hit on him. Knowing my father, it could be any one of his enemies, but once again, my thoughts revert to Javier’s conversation earlier today.
Peering through the window brings the church parking lot into view, where Javier’s car is missing for the night. Tomorrow, I’ll make a point of learning where he lives by following him home. Perhaps watching him closely will lend more insight into what role, if any, he could have played in Mac’s attack.
After a quick shower, I head down to the first floor and open the cupboard to the tunnel. All is quiet there.
No movement. No sound. I try to imagine what purpose this elaborate tunnel might serve, to be used so infrequently, or at all, since I’ve been here.
A text from Ivy pops up on my phone, which draws my attention to a news update that Machete Mac was just pronounced dead in the hospital.
Blowing out a breath, I sit on the edge of the bed, staring down at his name. Even if I only just met him, he was my blood. The man who gave me some small fraction of peace with my father before his death.
Ivy’s text remains unread, and I click on it to see she’s sent me a picture of the full moon behind her glass of wine. The caption to it reads:Wish you were here.
With some reluctance, I type back,Not a good night. I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.
Okay, she sends back with a sad face emoji.
Until I know for certain who was behind my brother’s murder, it’s best to remain cautious where Ivy’s concerned.
I make my way to the kitchen, where the cupboards are packed full with food, thanks to a few kind women from the congregation, but I haven’t yet stocked the place with the liquor that’s calling to me right now.
I nab my keys off the counter, head out to my car, and drive toward the liquor store just a couple blocks away.
Chuparosa liquor store lights up a quiet corner of a strip mall, and I pull the car alongside the curb in front. Once inside, I’m greeted by the scent of food and disinfectant—an unappealing combination. While perusing the various brands of potato chips, I catch movement toward the front of the store and pause, eyeing two figures, one of whom wears the same balaclava mask as that of the kid who attacked me my first night.
From across the store, I can’t make out what’s being said over the hum of the slush machine behind me, but when the cashier puts his hands in the air, my stomach sinks.
What are the odds?
I have no weapon, nothing to fight off the gun I can see pointed at the clerk, so I wait and watch.
After the clerk empties the cash register, the kid with the gun swipes up the money, stuffing it into his pocket, and nabs some jerky on his way out. The second kid snatches some candy from below the counter and races after his friend.
With careful steps, I come around the aisle, catching the clerk, whose hands tremble as he dials his phone.
“¡Ayúdame!I been robbed!”
Slinking past his panic, while he yells into his phone, I chase after the two, anchoring my eyes on them as I get in my car and hit the main street.
Keeping a few car lengths behind, I trail a silver Tacoma down back roads, getting farther away from the busy city area and into a more residential part of town.
Under the cover of darkness, I let my car idle, cutting the headlights, and watch the truck pull into a driveway before disappearing around the back of the house. Even with my windows rolled up, I can hear the music blaring from inside, and through the naked front window, I can see bodies packed tightly together.
I don’t dare go inside, knowing there could very well be members of the cartel here. Instead, I wait, passing the time by watching the interactions. Girls grinding on laps, undoubtedly having sex in plain sight, other girls dancing, making out with each other. Red Solo cups are the evidence of alcohol.
An hour passes before one of the girls stumbles out of the house, a boy on her heels. Clutching her head, she wavers on her feet, and it’s not hard to see she’s drunk. I roll down my window, watching them from the shadows cast by a row of tall bushes.
“Thanksfer drivin m’home,” the girl says, wandering aimlessly toward a car. “Had t’much.”
From my angle, I can’t quite make out her face, but she’s tall and slender, and in what little light from the streetlight shines down on her, I can see she has bronze skin.
“El carro equivocado, baby. Vamos.”
She stumbles behind him toward a black Maxima parked on the front lawn of the house. A minute later, the car shakes and a muffled scream steels my muscles. The scream turns high pitched, then muffles again, and I sink back into my seat.
Christ.
