interstate. Blank windows stretched in rows, looking out on the same parking lot. Next to the motel was a diner with brushed metal sides and booths behind the glass. On its sign was a giant coffee cup. Elena pushed her hands into the pockets of her jeans. “I feel like I should run.”
“Where?”
“Anywhere.”
Instead, she walked. She aimed for the back of the lot and seemed content to walk along the verge where scrub trees and chain-link fencing met. They walked in silence until the trees thinned and they could see rooftops across a wide gulley. Elena closed her eyes and lifted her chin as if testing the faint, acrid breeze with her nose. When she opened her eyes, there was a firmness to her mouth, an edge of decision.
He was going to lose her.
“How many people have you killed?”
The question caught Michael off guard. The words were matter-of-fact, but her face twisted, and fear, suddenly, inhabited everything around them; it gave urgency to the limbs that rattled and scraped, voice to the cars that screamed on the interstate, depth to the reflections caught in motel glass. It was fear of the next step, of crossing some uncrossed line and finding oneself trapped on the other side. Michael worried how Elena would react to the words he chose, and knew, too, the thing she feared. “One or a hundred,” Michael said, “does it really matter?”
“Of course it matters. What kind of stupid question is that?” She shoved her hands into her pockets, and together they watched a dog by the interstate. It loped along the verge, nose down, tongue lolling over brown, broken teeth. It looked once up the hill, then nosed a diaper that littered the roadside.
“With the exception of the man who raised me,” Michael said, “that dog is better than any man I’ve ever killed.”
Elena shivered at the certainty in his voice, the implications. “A man is not a dog.”
“A dog is usually better.”
“Not always.”
“I have good judgment.”
The dog pulled its snout from the diaper, and Elena wanted to scream; she wanted to run and vomit and carve great chunks from her heart. “What do we do now?”
“I take you to lunch.”
She shook her head. “I’m not hungry.”
Michael laid three fingers on her arm, and said, “It’s not about the food.”
The restaurant was an Italian bistro with white tablecloths and deep booths. Soft leather sighed as they sat. A waiter brought menus and filled their water glasses. “Anything else to drink while you’re thinking about your order?”
“Elena?” Michael asked.
“This is too normal.” Her hands found the white cloth and she pushed herself from the booth. “Excuse me.” She moved past the waiter and disappeared into the ladies’ room.
The waiter’s face showed his confusion.
Michael said, “I’ll have a beer.”
When Elena came back, they ate lunch, but it wasn’t easy. There was a reticence in her that went beyond the expected.
Back at the motel, Elena shut herself in the bathroom. When she came out, her hair was damp at the edges, the skin of her face pink from cold water and a rough towel. “I’ve made a decision.” She was resolute. “I’m going home.”
“You can’t.”
“I love you, Michael. God help me for that, I do. And I get it, okay? The whole childhood thing, what’s happened to you and how you turned into the man you are. It breaks my heart, truthfully, and I could spend a day weeping for the sad, small boys in that photograph you carry. But I have to put the baby first. This baby. Mine.” Both hands covered her stomach. “That means I can’t be with you. I’m sorry.”
“You’re not safe in New York. You’re not safe here, not without me.”
Her chin lifted. “I called Marietta.”
“Marietta who lives next door?”
“She has a key. She is sending my passport here by overnight mail. Tomorrow I will go back to Spain.”
“You gave Marietta this address?”
“Of course.”
“When did you call her?”
“What does it matter? I called her. She is sending the passport and I will leave.”
Michael caught her arm. “When?”
“This morning. While you slept.”
“What time?”
“Seven thirty, maybe eight. Ow, Michael. You’re hurting me.”
“Call her.” Michael released her arm and pushed his cell phone into her hand. “Do it.”
Elena dialed. “She is not answering.”
“Try her cell.”
Elena redialed and was shunted straight to voice mail. “She always has it with her. She always has it on.”
Michael knew this was true. Marietta worked in public relations. Her phone was her life. “Tell me the conversation.”
“She was going on about some corporate event-Mercedes, I think. I told her where to find the passport, in the cabinet above the oven. She said she would mail it first thing.”
“What else?”
“I heard voices. People on the stairs, maybe. She said she had to go.”
“Get your things. We’re leaving.”
“Why?”
“Marietta’s dead.”
“What?”
“We have to move.”
Michael checked the window. Outside, three men climbed from a dark green van. They were hard-looking men, one Hispanic and two whites. The Hispanic carried a duffel bag, and it was heavy. Michael did not recognize any of them, but knew at a glance what they’d come for. He took in the plates on the van, how their eyes moved, the way they carried themselves. “Too late.” He flicked the curtain closed, stepped into the bathroom, and started the shower. When he came out, he left the bathroom door cracked.
“What’s going on? What’s happening?”
A connecting door joined their room to the one next door. It had a brass deadbolt, but the wood was cheap and thin. Michael shouldered it open, wood cracking at the jamb, bright metal twisting. “Go.” Michael tipped his head at the door. Elena moved into the adjoining room, Michael behind her. He forced the damaged door closed, jamming hard to make it fit. At the window, he eased back the curtain. The men were across the lot, twelve feet away. They walked in a row, the center man eyeing the motel door, the two on the sides checking their flanks. “Elena.”
She eased up beside him. He wanted her to see, to understand. One of the men slipped a hand under his shirt, and Elena saw the dull show of black steel. “Jesus.”
She crossed herself.
