Eighty-five

Manny Robles. The busboy from Luck’s. He’d been a foster kid back then, bouncing from placement to placement, marking time until he aged out and could start life on his own. Until he was no longer at the mercy of people who claimed to have his best interests at heart. Obviously, there’d been something broken in him, but she’d missed it, too caught up in her own nightmare to see the monster lurking in her peripheral. So many monsters …

He was dragging her down a dimly lit corridor, her arm jerked over her head, stretched painfully, his fingers clamped roughly around her wrist. She was groggy and her face felt fat. Her bare foot was numb, ankle swollen.

“… gotta tell you, I didn’t think it’d work,” he told her, casting a quick look at her over his shoulder. “When Wade laid out the plan to get you here, I was sure you wouldn’t be stupid enough to take the bait.” He smiled. “I’ve never been so happy to be wrong.”

The DNA under Stephanie Adams fingernails. He’d planted it in an attempt to lure her out of hiding. And Wade told him to do it. He’d been talking to Manny, just like he talked to her. But it was more than just talk, apparently. Wade was driving him. Influencing him. That’s when she realized Wade was gone from her head. Not just quiet, but gone.

But he hadn’t gone far.

“Fuck off,” she muttered, rolling the eye that wasn’t rapidly sealing itself shut to catch glimpse of her captor while her free arm dragged and stuttered along beside her. She thought maybe her left shoulder was dislocated, which meant her dominant arm was pretty much useless.

Manny rounded the corner, pulling her along behind him, through an open doorway into a long narrow room, lit with a hanging shop light. He stopped dragging her, dropping her arm as soon as they breached the doorway. There was a bed shoved against the far wall, a small dark figure sprawled across it.

Ellie. It was Ellie. Sabrina felt her throat close, a saltwater sting in her sinuses, but she pushed it back, focusing her attention on Ellie’s chest, watching for the rise and fall that would tell her there was still hope. She counted to twelve before she caught sight of her rib cage expanding, slight and slow. She was alive but barely.

Manny finally looked down at her. “Do you believe in miracles, Melissa?”

Instead of answering him she averted her gaze, focusing on trying to lift her left arm. It wouldn’t budge.

“I do,” he told her in a companionable tone, leaning into her field of vision. “I believe in miracles. Want to know why?”

She stared through him, refusing to play his game. The knife Michael gave her was in her left-side pocket. As soon as she got the opportunity, she was going to stab him with it.

Like he could read her mind, his expression darkened and he straightened himself with a nod. “Okay,” he said, making his way over to where Ellie lay. Manny placed his hand over her nose and mouth. Within seconds she started to twitch from lack of oxygen. “Do you want to know why?” This time his tone was hard, his black glare drilling holes in her face.

“Yes,” she said, nodding. “I want to know why.”

He smiled. “Because my life has been filled with them.” He lifted his cupped hand from Ellie’s face. “My mother. You. Wade. I’m surrounded by the unexplainable. My very existence defies logic.”

“She’s not your mother—Magda Lopez.” Her mouth lifted slightly, drawn tight by her cold tone. “She’s not your mother, Manny. Paul Vega isn’t your brother. Father Francisco isn’t your father. Graciella told me how you heard the family story about the twin boys, one raised by the family and one given away. How you latched on and believed it was you. Needed to believe it was you.” She shook her head. “But it’s not. You’re not a miracle. Graciella realized it, but you wouldn’t listen. You’re just another sad, sick asshole with delusions of grandeur—just like Wade.”

His face went dark again. Reaching down, he fisted his hand in the hair at the top of her head and yanked her upward, jarring the ball and socket joint of her separated shoulder. The pain of it pushed in on her vision, squeezing it until all that was left was a field of white. He flung her forward, her swollen ankle as brittle as cracked glass that gives way as soon as pressure is applied.

She caught herself, fingers digging into the mattress Ellie lay on. “Do you believe in miracles, Melissa?” he said again, his words followed by a loud, sharp SNAPBANG! a moment before she felt the hard press of metal at the base of her skull.