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I nod toward the back of the Bronco, packed with belongings.
“Y’all going somewhere?” I ask.
“You interrogating me, Ranger?” he says, his voice taking on a stern tone. “You think I’m making a run for it?”
“Just asking as a friend.”
He huffs at my use of “friend,” but he answers.
“We’re moving,” he says. “Josie’s been wanting to get out of Snakebite for a long time. We’ve been looking at properties, trying to qualify for loans. As fate would have it, we just got approved yesterday. Timing’s perfect since Josie doesn’t want to live here anymore. Not after last night. She feels like our privacy has been violated—all the memories we’ve made in this house ruined.”
I think of what started all of this—Carlos spotting Parker going into a bank. But, with the exception of the one bank where Parker was spotted, Carlos hadn’t found any evidence that Parker had applied for other loans.
As if reading my mind—he probably knows we looked into this—Parker says, “The loan’s in Josie’s mom’s name. She’s got a better credit rating than we do. When I quit the Rangers, we fell behind on some payments before we got back on our feet.”
I’m embarrassed by the stupid assumptions Carlos and I made to get us into this mess. We’re supposed to be professionals.
“We’re going to stay with her mom until the sale goes through escrow and all that,” Parker adds.
“I thought there wasn’t room at her mom’s for all of you?”
“I’ll probably still sleep here.” He nods toward the house. “There’s a hell of a lot of work that needs to be done before we can put this place on the market.”
He looks at his house sadly.
“I thought you loved this place,” I say.
“I did,” he says. “I do. But marriage is all about compromise. You do what’s best for the family, not just yourself.”
Hearing him say this, I’m reminded about how much I admired—and still admire—his and Josie’s relationship. They seem to have everything I want.
And I hate myself for how I came into their lives and interfered.
I wasn’t welcome when I showed up this morning, but it’s clear by Parker’s demeanor that I’ve overstayed what little tolerance he had for me.
“I just want to say again how sorry I am,” I tell him. “I’m going to make it right.”
“There’s no making this right, Rory,” he says, losing his patience with me. “This isn’t the kind of mistake that can just be easily forgiven. I wish you the best. I hope you find your Alphabet Bandits or whatever you’re calling them. But I don’t ever want to see you again.”
He turns away, and—stinging from his words—I climb into my truck. I take a deep breath and put the truck in Drive. I remind myself what Willow told me.
It’s possible Parker will never forgive me.
But I have totry.
CHAPTER 38
FOUR HOURS LATER, I park my truck across the street from the Alamo. I look at the old mission-turned-fort, with its sun-bleached limestone exterior and pole flying the flag of Texas.
When you see the Alamo in person, it looks a lot smaller than you’d expect.
It’s hard to imagine a garrison holding the fort for any amount of time, let alone for as long as they did. I’ve been inside before, and the grounds and facilities are gorgeous, but I’m not here as a tourist today.
I’ve got work to do.
I step out of my truck and walk along the sidewalk. One lane is roped off, and I can see the dirty smudge where the crime-scene cleanup folks tried to wash away the blood. I take off my hat, hold it to my chest, and say a few words of prayer for Luisa Ramirez.
Then I take a passageway down into the River Walk and consult one of the maps on display. Mariachi music is playing to tourists navigating the walkways and riding the tour boats floating on the canals. A major robbery happened here just yesterday. Everyone around me seems to have forgotten it.
