Gustavo’s window to attack had closed too fast for him to get me, which was fortunate. Zavala owns much of Mexico City, so it couldn’t have been easy for Gustavo and his men to get as far as Rafael’s hacienda to begin with. All I know is that they got away, and I was burned thanks to what one of the other survivors heard that day. But I’m not too dumb to believe Gustavo won’t keep looking for me now that he knows I’m alive. I just don’t know how much time I have before he realizes I’m no longer in Mexico.
I shake my head to rid it of the barrage of images, instead forcing myself to picture Dr. Nicolo’s face again. My pulse slows, and the hot, impotent rage subsides, allowing my breath to even out. The doctor calmed me that first day I set eyes on her, just by virtue of her steady, sure voice and gentle touch. I haven’t thought of her in at least a year. I don’t even know her first name, but when I saw her this morning, she felt like a sign from heaven that I was somehow on the right path, that I didn’t make a mistake taking this detour to see Mom.
No, it wasn’t a mistake, but I need to get my ass in gear. I scratch my chin and wince when I hit a tender part of my jaw. An ice pack is in store for my face after I clean myself up. I consider shaving too, but decide I need to give the bruises a couple more days to heal before I try to hit them with a razor.
At last I step into the shower and turn the hot water on full blast. Closing my eyes, I try to banish all thoughts, but the photograph Arturo showed me earlier refuses to leave my mind. My entire being itches to get this done, to get the deal Zavala wants, get the intel I was hired to get, and get Zoe the fuck out of Mexico.
But despite that driving need, I’m fucking terrified. Not just for her life or her safety in the hands of that monster, but for the life she might have when I bring her home. There’s no question it’s the right thing to do, but what if I’m still looking over my shoulder for Amador’s matónes now that they know I’m not really dead?
The simple answer isn’t an easy one, but it’s the truth: I have to eliminate that problem. That’s all there is to it. One way or the other, I have to make it so Gustavo is no longer invested in wiping me out of existence, so I’m no longer a liability to him or Amador. So that it doesn’t serve them to see me dead.
If Arturo Flores is willing to kill a man he promised not to for the sake of his daughter, then I sure as shit need to be willing to do whatever is necessary for the sake of mine.
8 Callie
A farewell party for one of our nurses keeps me late, so by the time I get back to my apartment, I’m frantic to finish my last-minute packing before my Uber comes to take me to LAX. I keep checking my phone for a response from Barnaby, increasingly miffed because he hasn’t texted back all day. We’ve had a policy of trust all along, but perhaps I’ve been too trusting? I thought getting engaged would settle our conflicts and open up more discussions about our future, but maybe I was wrong.
We spent a few months on a break when I was two years into my residency. Then the following summer, Barnaby surprised me with a visit. At first he claimed he was just out in LA to scout a few private practice partnerships for potential positions when he finished his residency the following year. We spent one night together, which was the first sex I’d had since seeing him last.
Then, out of the blue, he proposed.
The sequence of events was so surprising and flattering I said yes. I’d mistakenly believed that he was earnest in his desire to move, to be closer to me and to make our relationship work. But it didn’t take long to realize his trip was only a way to leverage a better offer from a Denver practice. He would earn too much to justify moving to a more expensive, competitive city, so our relationship went back to how it had been before.
Maybe I’m a fool for accepting his lack of effort, but I’m just too busy to waste energy on pushing him for more. I tell myself we’ll figure it out, but it’s been almost three years since I accepted his proposal and nothing has changed. Which is why the strange text gives me such a sense of dread.
It isn’t until I’m in the back of the Uber and a friendly Black woman named Yazmin is driving me to the airport that my phone buzzes again. I swipe the screen to a message that makes no more sense than the last one, despite having words this time, and a cold prickling sensation sets in at the base of my skull.
“Thought you were waiting in Aspen? I’m coming to you, remember?”
I’m definitely not going to Aspen, nor waiting there for him, and I’m pretty sure he’s not coming to LA or he’d have told me. Fingers already going numb from the shock of cold understanding, I type back, “You haven’t been to LA in two years. Why now? Or did you mistake me for someone else??”
The next few seconds of watching the dots on the screen seem
