Page 113 of You Know Why

And again. Like he’s typing and deleting his words.

It’s all true, isn’t it? You’ve been hiding your whole life from me. Is that why you left the airport? Did you think I wouldn’t understand?

I didn’t have a choice about leaving, baby. I was trying to get you all out when things went sideways. They caught up to me at the airport, threatened your lives.

Who’s “they”?

We can’t do this now. Keep this phone on you. Don’t lose it. It holds the key.

Trey. I know about Chloe. I know you killed your first wife.

Three dots . . .

I can explain everything. Brooklyn? Be careful. I love you. Remember what I said in Argentina. Please, please remember.

Trey? Trey?

But there is no answer. I say a very bad word, and my son’s face whips to me, shocked.

“Sorry, Four.”

I close the phone and put it in my front right pocket, and the rest of the wallets in my left. I need to keep them close, need to keep us safe until Trey can get to us. I’m not going to waste time trying to figure out what’s going on. He can tell me himself, soon enough.

“All right, baby. Good job helping me here. I need to have some quiet time to think. You go back to the house. Your dad’s coming. Don’t say a word, do you understand? Not to Margot, not to Neve. And definitely not to Eden.”

“Yes, ma’am. I won’t.”

“Good boy.” I give him a huge hug. “We’re going to get through this. Everything is going to be okay.”

I watch Four get safely to the back door, then open a bottle of water and turn on the space heaters. The shelter warms quickly. I sit on the bench and pull a bright rainbow Mexican yoga blanket over my legs. It’s traveled, this blanket. I took it from the hotel where we spent our first few weeks together. The minute I realized I was pregnant, the idea of parting with the blanket that sheltered Four in my belly was impossible. I don’t usually get romantic about inanimate objects, but I couldn’t leave without it. A few pesos and thrilled well-wishes later, it was mine. It lives here in the safety of the shelter because I can’t bear the thought of losing it.

I’ve been dreaming about our time in Mexico since the accident. There’s something important about San Miguel de Allende, and I need to figure out what it is. Trey told me to remember. Begged me. So I will try.

I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and let the memory fill me. Cast my bruised mind back to the night we met.

Her Soft Memories

Ten Years Ago

The air was soft and supple, perfumed with honeyed jacaranda, lavender, bougainvillea, and spicy geraniums. No place in the world smells the same.

My hands were tired, the pleasant ache that came from an all-day shoot. My stomach was full—I’d been taste-testing the tamales. No sense letting them go to waste. I was on the rooftop of the Rosewood Hotel, drinking tequila on the rocks. The hotel was a splurge, but the per diem the magazine was paying covered more than I was used to, so I figured, Why not? I’d been working hard the past few months. I could afford a few nights of luxury.

The nights were special here. An owl was hooting. The flowers were riotous. The city’s lights glowed, bell towers and church spires, and from my vantage point, I had a perfect view of La Parroquia. My hair was sticking to the back of my neck, so I wound it up in my hand, fanning my collar. The tequila was sharp and the sky brilliant with stars.

And there was a man, standing in the shadows. Tall. Lean. Handsome. His hair was black and wavy, curling over his ears. I couldn’t see his eyes, just had the sense that he was watching me.

A server dropped another tequila on my table. “Tequila del señor,” he said with a quick smile and a nod to the shadow man.

I didn’t speak much Spanish, but it didn’t take a rocket scientist. I was feeling loose, happy. I picked it up and tipped it toward him, eyebrow cocked. Your move, mate.

The chatter was genial, people enjoying their night. Fleetwood Mac sang “Go Your Own Way.” And the shadow man walked toward me.

In the meager light, I couldn’t see his eyes until he got close. The candle showed them to be the same color as my excellent aged tequila. He hadn’t shaved in a few days, the shadow along his jaw soft, and when he smiled, his teeth were perfect except for a slight overlap of the front two. As tall as I was, I could tell he would tower over me.

“Is this seat taken?”

“All yours,” I invited. He sat.