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He nodded. “I’ll call you first, then I’ll call Jack.”
“Dammit, Rafe!”
An elderly couple using walkers were slowly leaving the church and gave me a harsh look. They’d heard me swear at a priest. A popular priest who everyone in the parish loved. I just extended my time in purgatory. At this rate, I’d never get out.
What wasn’t to love about Raphael Morales? Other than the fact that he was stubborn and manipulative and noble and compassionate and usually right.
“Just call me first, okay?” I said. “St. Dominic’s is so far from anything he knows that I don’t think he’ll put two and two together. But there’s a slim possibility he’ll remember that her grandparents had lived in this neighborhood, and he might come around, start asking questions. Possibly while in uniform. Maybe send over a surrogate. He’s tracked her movements for years, and even though she only came here once since they’ve been married, he might check. Be alert.”
He nodded, kissed my hand, held on. “I will see you next weekend.”
A statement.
“You never ask me to come to Mass, why now?”
“I meant for my parents’ anniversary party.”
“Oh. Right. Yes. Of course I’ll be there. I wouldn’t miss it.” Abuela and Pop were celebrating their sixtieth wedding anniversary. My uncle Tom was closing his restaurant for the event and there would be a huge buffet, lots of family and friends and Very Important People because Hector and Margaret Morales both came from long-time Phoenix families. Pop was a retired judge, and Abuela had raised her kids while also running a taco stand near the courthouse. A taco stand that turned into a food truck in 1978—and may have been the first modern food truck outside of Los Angeles—that turned into eighteen food trucks. She’d stepped aside nearly twenty years ago, and Uncle Tom and his son, Adam, ran the business now.
“Why didn’t you think I would come?”
He didn’t speak. I grew suspicious.
“Who’s talking about me?”
“I know you and your mom had a falling out a few weeks back—”
“Stop. Don’t. Mom and I had a falling out three years ago. But I never let that stop me from doing my family duty, did I?”
“I know you don’t want me in the middle of things, but I am fair.”
“It’s not about fairness. If I thought you could solve our problems, I would have asked you to mediate three years ago. We have a fundamental disagreement. I will not budge. If that makes me stubborn and rigid, I don’t care. My dad’s innocence is not something I will ever stop pursuing. Ever. He shouldn’t be in prison. I can’t just walk away.”
“No one has walked away from Cooper.”
“Yes, they have! Visiting him every week is bullshit.” I winced, but didn’t apologize. “I tried to understand why he pled guilty, but it doesn’t make sense, and he was wrong to do so. Mom was wrong to agree with him. She could have talked him out of it—he would have listened to her. My brothers and sisters were on my side until she convinced them to go along with it. And I don’t see the why. So no, you can’t mediate. The only thing you can do is convince Mom that she is wrong, and you won’t do that. You think I’m stubborn? I’m Ava Morales Angelhart’s daughter. I get it from her.”
“I didn’t mean to upset you, Margo.”
I took a deep breath, needing to calm down. “I’m tired, and I have to work this afternoon, so I need to sleep. Like you said, I look like shit.”
He raised an eyebrow but had a sparkle in his eye. “I don’t think that’s what I said.”
I smiled. A truce. “Not in so many words, but you were thinking it.”
He smiled, rubbed my shoulder. “I’m glad you came to Mass.”
“You might see me again here next week.” I hugged him. “Love you, Uncle Rafe. And remember what I said about Carillo. See him, call me.”
I crashed hard for five hours and woke up at four that afternoon feeling disorientated. I hated sleeping in the middle of the day, but three hours’ sleep a night for a week had finally taken its toll.
I popped a pod into my Keurig and grabbed it as soon as it was done. Took the mug into the bathroom where I showered, towel-dried my dark blond hair, dressed in cargo pants and a white tank top, then checked my messages.
Sure enough, one came from Brittney Monroe. Also several texts from Theo, the college kid who worked for me part-time. He’d given me a solid report on Logan Monroe’s whereabouts today, including pictures and details. He’d done good.
Though I maintained a storefront in a tired strip mall near the busy intersection of Cave Creek and Hatcher—got a good deal on the tiny space from friends of my cousins—I preferred working at home. I sat at my desk in the second bedroom that I’d turned into my office (though if I had a guest, they could sleep on the pullout couch that, when unfolded, took up all remaining floor space).
I hit Brittney’s number. She picked up on the first ring. “You don’t get Sundays off, Ms. Angelhart.”
