“He’s a friend.” I emphasize the word friend. “And he probably saw you on the news.”
David nods, apparently buying the explanation. We wait an awkward moment. Then I finally decide to let David in.
As he walks past me. he takes notice of my face. “Wow. You look… much better. Except”—he points at his teeth—“you’ve got some…”
I panic and look in a mirror near the door. As Ammon said, I’m noticeably better. I’m back to my old self. I bare my teeth. Yep. Chocolate all over the place. Thanks, Ammon, for telling me.
I rub my teeth and dig as much out as I can. “So, what brings you by?”
David takes a seat on the couch. “You’ve been ignoring my calls.”
“Oh. That.”
“Yeah. That.”
I take a seat on the couch—on the far end and look David over, trying to read his body language to determine what he’s thinking. All I see is his doing the same thing to me. Neither one of us is willing to reveal our emotions. Instead, we sit there, completely still, completely relaxed.
Knowing this could go on forever, I move on to business. “Why don’t you tell me what’s happening with Elizabeth.”
He shakes his head. “You need to tell me what happened back at the church.”
“I will. But since I’m about to bare my soul, I think the least you can do is tell me what’s going to happen to Elizabeth.”
He sighs. “It’s out of my control, Darcy.” Already, I know this isn’t going to be good. “One, she’s undocumented. Two, she’s the daughter of a drug kingpin.”
“Queenpin.”
“I don’t think that’s a word.”
“Feminism will fix that.”
“Is feminism really worried about equality in the criminal world?”
“David,” I say, killing the banter. “What’s going to happen to Elizabeth?”
He sighs. “She’s getting deported.”
“It’s not her fault…”
“It’s not my call. Honestly, maybe it’s better for her if she goes back to Mexico. If she stays, there’s a pretty good chance the feds would seek to prosecute her for even being the daughter of drug trafficker.”
“She’s just a kid. There’s got to be something we can do.”
“I asked,” he said. “Grace says the DA is dead set on having her deported.”
The moment he says “Grace,” I feel the sting. He looks away, and I can tell I didn’t hide the pain very well.
“What happened in there?” he asks after a long awkward silence. He looks back up at me. “I’ve been trying to understand it all week. I’ve had so many questions.” His speech quickens. “And my report—you have no idea the verbal acrobatics I had to go through to explain my version of the incident. I have three different supervisors on my ass about my report, plus the chief of police, and I have to submit testimony to the police board at the end of the month. And I can’t even begin to describe what I’ve had to do to keep the entire force away from you. I’m doing all this, and I still have no idea what happened!” He takes a breath, calming himself down. “So I’m asking, what was that thing you were fighting in the mausoleum? What… are you?”
I take a moment. Prepare myself. Then I start. And I tell him… everything. What happened to me in Malbrook. My brother. My search for the demon’s name. Father Ramon. The case to find Elizabeth. Santa Muerte.
The words spill out like an avalanche, describing the hell that is my life and the evil that dwells inside me. I tell him everything he needs to run away from me and never look back. He doesn’t run. He sits there, taking it all in, listening to every insane word.
So I keep going, trying to drive him away. I tell him it was my fault Lupe was murdered in the library. I tell him about what I did in the meth house in Harvard Park. I take the blame for Fiona’s house fire.
When I’m finally done, David has enough ammunition to throw me in jail and forget I ever existed. Instead, he sits there and digests my whole sordid story. I sit at my end of the couch, waiting for him to storm away or pull out the handcuffs. He continues to do nothing. Infuriatingly typical.
Finally, he slides across the couch and gingerly takes my hand in his. His skin is warm to the touch but still sends shivers up my spine. “I never told you this, but I used to sell drugs when I was a kid.”
I’m taken aback—this wasn’t the response I was expecting. But he’s talking, finally, so I listen.
“My parents were both dealers. When I turned twelve, they put me on the streets to start selling. When my little brother turned twelve, he joined me. Adam. My parents would split a g-pack of heroin between us to sell on the streets. Adam was fourteen when he was murdered. The found his body on Hudson, by the power station on the shore. He was stabbed a dozen times. His life was worth five hundred dollars.”
David pauses, struggling with the memory. “Next day, my parents give me the whole g-pack to sell. ‘Go raise money for his funeral,’ my mother said. Jewish guilt.” He chuckles, more out of discomfort than because he finds his story humorous. “That was it. I was done. Done with them. Done with drugs. Done with New York. I moved here with no money. I was homeless for the first few months, working odd jobs. Couch surfing. Then I joined the academy. You know the rest from there.”
David has never told me any of this. He’s sharing—trading. My dark secrets for his.
“Do you remember when we first met? You were surveilling a drug dealer I was building a case against, back when I was in narcotics. You helped me bust him. That wasn’t just any case for me. That was personal. I never thanked you for that. It meant a lot.”
I squeeze his hand. You’re welcome.
He squeezes it back
