“You know that other name you gave me, Everett Moore?”
“Yeah. He doesn’t exist, right?”
“Wrong. I had to bypass a few firewalls, but I found him in a criminal informational database for LA County Jail. About ten years ago he was doing time for rape. The underage victim is unlisted, of course.”
Ben felt a strange hollowness spread through his chest.
“He was stabbed to death by a guy named Rodrigo Garcia.”
“Garcia. Not Vasquez.”
Nathan nodded. “I poked around in his file, too. Garcia is a model inmate at Santee Lakes Correctional Facility. His father is deceased, some Mexican national named Ramon Garcia, but his mother lives in East San Diego. Her name is Anita Vasquez.”
Ben closed his eyes, hating her for lying to him about some things and telling the truth about others.
“Rodrigo Garcia has one sister, six years his junior. Sonora Mariela Vasquez.”
“Sonny,” he murmured, tasting the name on his lips.
Nathan turned to face him. “Hmm?”
“She goes by Sonny.”
His brother gaped at him incredulously. “You’re in love with her.”
“Please,” he scoffed, refusing to entertain such a ridiculous notion.
“It’s written all over your face.”
“That’s not love, it’s satisfaction,” Ben said. “I just banged the hell out of her.” Never mind that he’d never felt less satisfied. The sex had been phenomenal, but staying there and doing it again, going slow, taking his time…that would have been better.
“Whatever you say,” Nathan chuckled, logging off.
“Tell me what happened with James.”
“You know I can’t.”
“Nathan,” he warned, doing a conscious imitation of their father, “this is my daughter we’re talking about.”
“No it isn’t,” Nathan replied, annoyed with Ben’s intimidation tactics. “We’re talking about a teenaged boy, and my client, a person to whom I have a legal and ethical obligation.”
Ben wanted to press further, but knew his brother well enough not to bother. “Should I be worried?”
Nathan’s smooth brow wrinkled. “Carly thinks she’s in love with a kid whose father just turned up dead. Her best friend was also murdered, consequently. Yes, you should definitely be worried.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Carly is my niece, Ben. If she were in danger from James, don’t you think I’d tell you?”
Ben rubbed a hand over his tired face. “What the hell am I supposed to do with him? Adopt him? Kick him out on the street? Send him to his brother’s?”
“No. Don’t send him there.”
“Why not?”
“He’s safer here. Trust me.”
If anyone had ever told Ben that he’d be allowing his sixteen-year-old daughter’s boyfriend to spend the night under his roof, even once, he’d have kicked their ass on principle. “And what about Carly?” he asked. “Where will she be safe?”
When her dad poked his head in to check on her, Carly pretended to be asleep. She made a little snuffling noise and turned her head to one side, letting her hair cascade across the pillow.
He shut the door quietly and moved on, walking down the hall to his own room.
She wanted to get up and sneak downstairs immediately, but she waited in the silent dark of her bedroom, ticking off endless minutes, her heart pounding with anticipation. When the walls seemed like they were closing in on her, threatening to suffocate her, she slipped out from beneath the covers and tiptoed across the hardwood floor.
At her bedroom door, she hesitated. The hallway was quiet and there was no sliver of light beneath her father’s door. When he was awake, he checked in on her often, but when he wasn’t, he slept like a log. She remembered climbing into her parents’ bed one Christmas morning and jumping on the mattress, having a pillow fight with her mom, and opening several presents while her dad snored on.
She snuck across the hall and down the carpeted stairway, moving silently in her bare feet, feeling the delicious rush of blood through her veins. In the living room, she peeked over the edge of the couch to make sure James was sleeping. He was on his stomach, face making a dent in the soft feather pillow, one hand shoved down the front of his pants.
She smiled sadly, resisting the urge to ruffle his hair.
Earlier, when she’d been afraid James would be arrested for murder, she’d told him she loved him. She’d just blurted it out, right in front of everyone. The look on his face was one of total disbelief, as if he couldn’t fathom why she would say such a thing.
It brought tears to her eyes, just thinking about it.
Being with James made her feel better, and hearing him tell her he loved her back warmed her insides, but she’d never been good about handling her emotions. Visions of Lisette’s murder and her mother’s bracelet made her head swim. Worrying about her dad, and James, and everything…
She just couldn’t take it anymore.
Moving past the living room couch, she padded into the kitchen and felt her way down the black granite countertop as her eyes adjusted to the dark night. The butcher block was there in the corner, knife handles offering themselves up like saving graces.
Letting out the breath she’d been holding, she wrapped her hand around one and pulled, hearing it slide from its sheath with a soft
The blade gleamed in the moonlight.
Pulse racing, she ducked into the guest bath, pulled the door closed, and turned on the light. In her reflection, her eyes were huge and her hair was wild. She looked like a deranged mental patient, fresh from the asylum.
Stifling a delirious giggle, she lowered herself to the bathroom floor and pulled her extra-large T-shirt over her head. Clad only in bikini panties, she stared down at her skinny body, looking for the best place to cut.
Everyone told her she was pretty. Carly didn’t see what they saw. She was too tall and too thin, with flyaway hair and bones sticking out all over the place, her haughty attitude masking a thousand insecurities.
Her mother had been beautiful. She’d also been curvy and womanly, with an awesome pair of boobs and a butt her dad couldn’t keep his hands off.
Carly looked down at her naked chest. She had cut herself here because it was one of the only places she had extra flesh. It also felt safer to nick this secret place, where no one would ever look, not even her dad.
Now that James had touched her breasts, and told her how much he liked them, she felt weird about cutting herself there. He would surely find out.
Where else could she do it? What places did boys not want to look, or try to touch? She frowned down at herself, experiencing a flurry of indecision. If she didn’t make a cut, she’d have a long night to look forward to, awake and fraught with anxiety.
Raising the knife, she brought the blade toward her upper arm. It was winter, she rationalized, and she wouldn’t be wearing any tank tops for a while.
The sharp sting was both shocking and comforting, painful and beautiful. Blood welled from the cut in jewel- bright beads, wet and red and luscious. Tears of relief fell down her cheeks and she closed her eyes, feeling the warm trickle, savoring the sweet release.
When she opened them again, James was standing over her. Groggily, she brought the T-shirt up to her chest and fumbled for the knife, but he’d already seen it.
He already had it.
Saying nothing, he rinsed the blade and set the knife aside, his hair sticking up all over the place, the muscles in his face tense. He sorted through the medicine cabinet, finding antibiotic ointment and bandages.
He cleaned up her cut and wrapped it carefully while she sat on the cold tile floor, her back against the wall, body shivering, mind numb.
“I won’t do it again,” she whispered, letting him help her up.
