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I dress, choosing each piece to give off the ice queen persona that I’ve built since Lazaro’s disappearance. Then I descend to breakfast that Diana has ready for me along with her perky smile.
I sip my coffee and only take a few bites of my toast, noting my mind is still spinning, vacillating between my idiotic behavior with Henry, the deal he proposed, and heartache that Lazaro isn’t here to be my support through it all.
When I finish, I gather my purse to head to the office, but then detour out to the large garage on our property.
At the doors, I stop, rethinking my actions. I haven’t been in the garage since Lazaro’s disappearance. If I want a car, I have someone bring it to the front of the house. With a deep breath, I open the doors and step into the building. The scent of motor oil hits me as I look over row upon row of gleaming vehicles, a testament to Lazaro's passion.
My throat tightens as I run my hand along the sleek hood of his favorite Aston Martin. These cars were his babies, meticulously cared for and cherished. Now they sit, mostly unused, like time capsules of a happier era.
I think about how Elio has been steadfast in his belief that Lazaro is dead, and yet he keeps the cars. He regularly takes out the cars, keeping the engines purring and the batteries charged. Perhaps it's his way of honoring Lazaro's memory.
Even so, Elio has accepted Lazaro's absence and moved on with his life. Sometimes, I envy his ability to do that. But I can't let go. I won't. Not until I know for certain what happened to my twin.
I linger among the cars, running my fingers along their smooth, polished surfaces. I can almost pretend Lazaro is here, bent over an engine with a wrench in his hand. These cars were his sanctuary.
People always misunderstood my brother. They saw his quick temper, his eagerness for a fight, and labeled him a thug. Most people were afraid of him because he came off as a bit unhinged. While he did have a temper, I think the unhinged part was an act, knowing it made people wary, even afraid.
But here in the garage, he was calm, even keeled. Happy. Where I found peace in spreadsheets and business, Lazaro found it here, elbow-deep in grease and metal. The ice princess and the prince of fire and rage. Where I was cool calculation, he was burning passion. My calm logic tempered his wild impulses, while his brazen confidence gave me strength when mine faltered.
I open the door of the Aston Martin and slide in. The weight of his absence crashes over me suddenly, stealing my breath. For once, I don't fight the emotions. Surrounded by the ghosts of happier times, I let myself feel the full depth of my grief. Hot tears spill down my cheeks.
What happened, Lazaro?
I think about the last job our parents sent him on. It was supposed to be a straightforward task to track down a low-level associate who'd been skimming profits. Lazaro was to make an example of him, ensuring no one else got ideas about betraying the family.
I close my eyes, picturing Lazaro's face as he prepared to leave. That fierce determination in his eyes, the set of his jaw. But also the mischievous glint he got from raining down fear on someone. I wish I’d gone with him.
I close my eyes, asking the question for the two millionth time. What happened?
The possibilities haunt me. Was he killed? Is he being held captive somewhere? Did he suffer some terrible accident? Or did he choose to leave us—to leave me? I dismiss that last idea, leaving only death or injury as possibilities. The thought ofLazaro hurt or afraid, needing me and I'm not there to help him, is unbearable.
If I had even half of his tenacity, maybe I'd have found him by now. Three years of dead ends and false leads. Sometimes, I feel like I’m losing hope. But Lazaro wouldn't have given up. He'd keep pushing, keep fighting, no matter how hopeless things seemed.
I wipe my tears. Wallowing in sadness won’t get me anywhere. It certainly won’t bring Lazaro home. He’s out there somewhere, and I won't stop until I bring him home. And that means I need Henry’s help.
I climb out of the car. My thoughts drift back to Henry. Does he truly want to help me find Lazaro, or is this all an elaborate ploy to get close to me, to gather intel on my family? I’d be an idiot to think it wasn’t that. But if he’ll hold up his side of the deal, his help might be the only chance I have to find out what happened to Lazaro.
It’s an idiot move. I’m playing with fire, risking everything just for a chance, a glimmer of hope that Lazaro is out there.
I find the keys to the Aston Martin, deciding to take it out in honor of Lazaro. Who knows, maybe his spirit is in the car. It was the one he’d taken out for the errand my parents sent him on.
I slide the key into the ignition when my phone buzzes. I tug it from my purse and see Henry’s number. It’s terrifying how happy seeing his call makes me. I should ignore it. Indulging in this desire is going to be the death of me, quite possibly literally.
"Detective," I greet him, keeping my voice cool and controlled.
"Lana.” His deep voice makes my spine tingle, as usual. God, when will that stop? "I was wondering about your plans for this evening."
I pause, caught off guard. "My plans?"
"Yes.” His voice is hesitant. Could it be that he's weirded out by our situation too? "I thought we might have dinner together again. To discuss our… collaboration."
Is this a genuine attempt to work together, or is he taking advantage of what happened last night? Does he want to use last night to toy with my emotions?
"I'm not sure that's wise. Our last meal together ended rather… unprofessionally."
“Should I apologize?” There he goes, being a gentleman again.
“Are you sorry?” I ask.
