Sixty-two

She shouldn’t be here. It was wrong—and not just because if she was caught, Paul Vega would sic his lawyer brother on her and probably sue the entire department for harassment. No, coming here was wrong because it was unhealthy. She knew that. She knew that her incessant return to the place where her childhood best friend had been tortured bordered on obsessive behavior. She knew that in doing so, she perpetuated the ridiculous fantasy that she could’ve done something. That she should do something to help Rachel, even if Rachel didn’t want her to.

And yet, here she was.

Ellie switched the ignition off on her car, pulling the keys from the steering column, but she didn’t get out of the car. As much as she was driven to come back to this place, over and over again, she hated it.

What happened that night ate at her. She couldn’t stop thinking about it. Couldn’t stop wondering. What would’ve happened if she’d stayed at Rachel’s instead of going home? Would she have been able to talk her best friend into staying home instead of getting in that car? Would Rachel have been able to persuade Ellie to go with her, like so many times before?

Did it even matter now that she was dead?

Keys gripped in her fist, Ellie forced herself out of the car, careful to shut the door as quietly as possible. Not that anyone was around to hear her. The surrounding fields were deserted, the sweltering heat driving Vega’s workers indoors for the last few hours of the day. They’d be back at it tomorrow, well before the sun rose, stooping and pulling. Tossing and packing. It was hard, grueling work that made you old before your time. She should know, she’d spent her fourteenth summer in those fields, working alongside her mother, sullen gaze dug into the dirt that surrounded her, arms and legs stiff with anger and resentment.

It’d started out as harmless fun. Running through the fields, stomping and smashing watermelons with her friends. She didn’t remember when it’d turned into something more. That she was no longer laughing, hate surging through her every time she brought her foot down. That’s when she realized she blamed the Vega family for her father’s death.

It’d taken her months to scrub away the grime that worked its way into her hands. It had taken her only half as long to finally understand that she’d never be able to destroy enough or cost the Vegas enough lost profits to make them sorry. Because they didn’t care. They didn’t even know her father existed.

She never told her mother that it’d been Paul Vega himself who suggested they go into those fields in the first place. That while everyone else had been throwing chunks of melon at one another and grinding that soft, red pulp into the ground, he’d been sitting on the tailgate of his truck, watching the destruction with a smug, satisfied smile. It was obvious, to anyone who cared to pay attention, how much he hated it all.

Ellie brushed off the memory, reaching for the buzzing phone she’d jammed into her back pocket. It was her sister, Val. She called every day to check on their mother; their conversation usually ending in an argument. Val wanted to move their mother to San Francisco.

Not just mom, Ellie. We want you to come too. Devon can put in a good word for you with the police department here and you can stay with us as long—

That’s about as far as she allowed Val to take it before she hung up on her. Swiping left, Ellie dumped the call into her voicemail—she’d call her sister back later. Right now, she had other things to worry about.

It was just a few steps to the pump house and she took them quickly. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out one of the paper clips she’d tucked in there earlier. Bending it open, she worked the thin length of metal until it snapped in two. Fitting the newly separated pieces into the lock, Ellie lifted and jiggled until the tumblers gave way. Giving it a hard twist, the lock popped open.

Like any farmer, Vega rotated his crops. She’d bet the pump house and the fields that surrounded it hadn’t been used in years. Stepping inside, she shut the door behind her. A row of glass block ran the perimeter of the room, set at the top of the wall. The sunlight they let in were the pump house’s only source of light.

In the middle of the room was a waterwheel, as big as a car tire, attached to a complicated series of pumps and pipes that stood so tall they nearly touched the ceiling. She headed for it, drawn like a magnet to the place where Rachel had spent four days of her life.

She remembered the first time she’d come here, ignoring the large, official-looking sticker that sealed the door. The police weren’t coming back. No one was investigating what happened to her friend. No one cared. The Vega family obviously used their money and influence in the community to make sure of that. They’d silenced everyone. Even Rachel.

Ellie had decided she’d be the one to find something. Some sort of clue or proof that it was Paul Vega who’d hurt Rachel. When she found it, she’d take it to the police. The newspapers. Someone had to listen. There had to be someone who couldn’t be bought … but when she got there, she realized how ridiculous her revenge fantasy really was.

It was the waterwheel that finally convinced her. One of its painted spokes was scraped clean. This was where Rachel must’ve been kept, handcuffed to the wheel. Made to do horrible things, to believe she was going to die. She looked down at the scatter of Dodger blue paint flakes in the dirt beneath her feet and felt the weight of the truth settle onto her shoulders. She was just a kid. She had no idea what she was looking for. She didn’t know the first thing about evidence collection. What happened to Rachel was a puzzle she couldn’t solve.

Standing in that pump house, looking at the remnants left behind by the crime scene techs, she’d envied them. They knew how to get answers. She turned around and left, promising herself she wouldn’t come back here until she knew what to do. So she could find justice for her friend.

Whether she wanted it or not.

Now, looking around, all Ellie saw was evidence. Shoe prints. A man’s dress shoe—size 10–12. She immediately stopped walking to pull her phone from her pocket. Snapping off a few pictures, she crouched in the dirt to get a closer look. One of the shoe prints was settled deeper into the dirt, like the foot that made it had been used to push its owner forward. Standing again, she could see it, the uneven gate, the tip of the right print turned slightly inward. The man who made it had a limp.

She had a kit in her car. She’d take casts. Print the door. Call Agent Vance. She’d seemed solid. More importantly, she was a federal agent. It wasn’t likely that the Vega family could buy her like they did local law enforcement.

Hand on the door, ready to push it open, she was stopped in her tracks by the blare of her car alarm. The urgent sound of it propelled her forward, out into the heat of the day. A coyote trotted across the field, away from her. It turned its head to look back at her, something hanging out of its mouth. Probably a rabbit that got cornered under the car.

Sighing in relief, she traded her phone for her car keys. Raising them, she aimed the fob at the car to silence it. That’s when she saw the white slip of paper secured to her windshield with her wiper blade, heavy black ink spilled across it. She stopped in her tacks, reading the note from where she stood, the words tightening her grip around the set of keys in her hand.

Ellie took a step back, reaching for her phone. Before she could pull it from her pocket, a strong arm snaked around her waist, pinning her arms at her sides before yanking her off her feet while the other clamped over her mouth, forcing the scream she’d built up back into her mouth.

“Well, Elena? Do you?”

She grunted, whipping her head backward, trying like hell to crack his nose with the back of her skull. He was ready for her, dodging the blow, and she connected with his shoulder instead, her head bouncing against the crook of his neck. Not ready to give up, Ellie remembered the keys in her hand and lashed out, stabbing them into his thigh. The angle was wrong, his pants too thick. The keys fumbled out of her hand, landing at her scuffling feet.

Her eyes wheeled wildly in her head, trying to get a look at him. All she caught sight of was a smooth jawline and skin only slightly darker than her own. But it was enough.

“I know you,” she wheezed against the hand at her mouth, breath squeezed by the tightening of his arm around her middle. “I know—”

Her eyes took another spin before landing on the windshield of her car and the letter attached to it.

Do you believe in miracles?