Neesa wished she could go exploring with Rath. The exploring part, not the being with Rath part.
God, she needed this attraction to him like a sinkhole opening beneath her feet.
She walked into the cool room and changed into a professional shirt. “It’s only the dangerous veneer. Okay, it’s more than a veneer.” He’d killed two men without any show of emotion. How many others had he killed in the line of duty? Having someone so lethal on her side was incredibly comforting. Maybe that was all it was. Had to be, because dangerous men weren’t her thing.
Damn, she couldn’t really try to snow herself like that.
She brushed her hair and powdered her face, meeting her reflection in the mirror. “Okay, so you find him appealing. And not because he’s dangerous. Big deal.”
He was good-looking in that wild-west way, a man who’d seen plenty and could handle whatever came his way. “And you’re just another thing coming his way. A job. Don’t see it as anything more than that.”
She fired up her computer, switched mental gears, and dove into her patient’s notes. Shanari married a narcissist abuser with whom she had a son. Was repairing her self-esteem and her life while still having to deal with him because of co-custody. Ready.
She had an hour’s video session, pleased with Shanari’s progress, her determination to stand strong against her manipulative, gaslighting ex. “I’m so proud of you. How are you doing with the book?”
“Omigosh, it’s transformational!” Shanari held up Letters from a Better Me and ruffled the many flags she’d attached to the pages. “I’m over halfway through. I even take it into the bathroom with me. I’ve written letters to my ex, myself, my parents, and even God. I feel my anger releasing bit by bit. Seeing it all in a different perspective.”
“Excellent.” Neesa used Rachael Wolff’s book with many of her patients as homework during the process. “See you in two weeks.”
Once patients had attended the weekly retreat, having time to completely unplug from their sometimes toxic and often hectic and stressful lives, they continued with counseling sessions as needed. Neesa felt a deep fondness for these women and admiration for their strengths and even their weaknesses. She had not suffered the same kind of trauma they had, but she understood the scars well enough. Knew how the trauma infiltrated the mind and heart, built up walls and enough defenses to guard a village. She’d dived into that part of her schooling, nailing every exam and assignment.
As she jotted down her notes post-session, the email notification dinged for her second Gmail account. Her heart jumped as she scrambled to log in, her gaze going to the lone message. Not from her father. She took a breath, but her hope only wavered a little. Since this account was only for one purpose, any email could be significant. She opened it, translating the Spanish in her head as she read.
This email is to Senorita Neesa, daughter to Dan. He asked me to send any notices to this account if I did not hear from him, and so here we are. He paid ahead his rent on his apartment, but it is now a month late. I trust you will remedy this and, if appropriate, move his things out so that I can rent it to someone else.
Her father’s apartment! She called the number in the email and spoke with León Aureoles, hungrily gathering as much information as possible. That’s when Rath returned…before she’d had a chance to think about how she’d present this.
He immediately keyed in on her energy, listening to her wrapping up a conversation. “We could get there tonight. Will that work?” Yes, sooner the better, the man on the other end said. “We’ll start heading your way now, though I’m not sure how long it will take.”
Rath gave her one of those anticipatory looks, obviously clueing in that the call had something to do with their goal. Shrewd, smart, she wondered if he knew she wasn’t telling him everything. She decided to do so on this.
“My father has an email account that we’ve used to keep in touch over the years. There hasn’t been any communication from anyone in months. I just got a notification of a new email and found one from his landlord. We have his apartment location now.” She felt a gust of relief at that, and also a rip in the flimsy fabric of hope that he was hiding there, safe but unable to let her know. “Hopefully, we’ll find something of value there.”
And nothing incriminating. Damn, she wished she could tell Rath everything, but if he thought for a second that her father might have betrayed his superiors, Rath would have to tell his boss, and then he’d be pulled. And yes, that should happen, but going back to doing this alone was too daunting to contemplate.
“Where is it?” he asked.
“Playa del Miramar, Tampico, in Tamaulipas.” It hit her then, the significance of the place. “Of course, he’d have a place there.”
“Why?”
“It’s where we spent our last family vacation. Just a couple of days there, but an idyllic break. Good memories. Oh, Papá.” A wave of grief washed through her that she released with a sigh. “Let me see how far it is from here.” She dropped down to the chair at the desk, and Rath leaned close behind her, his hands on the knobs of her chair. She could feel his body heat, the tickle of his hair brushing against her own. “It’ll take a little over three hours.”
“Why am I just now hearing about this account?” he asked.
“I didn’t think it was important, considering nothing’s happened in it for months.”
“But it’s important enough for you to have a notification set up. Neesa, I need to know everything you know if we’re going to find your father.” He pinned her with his vivid blue eyes. “Understand?”
“I do.”
She looked away, looking at the route on the map. He was right, of course. Honesty was a two-edged sword. “It’s a Gulf-side town, popular because of its beautiful beaches.”
“Good, it should be full of visitors. This place is pretty insular. I stuck out like a gringo thumb.” He threw his things into his bag and was ready to go in about two minutes. She took only a few minutes longer, eager to get on the road and get some answers…maybe about the cryptic request her father had made on that last phone call. Yes, one that she should share with Rath. But that, too, would sound suspicious to anyone other than one who wholeheartedly believed in her father’s goodness.
And she did. She wished she could go into the apartment alone at first, but that would be a dubious request. Well, she’d take whatever came and hope to God there was some clue as to where he might have gone. Or who might have him.
Rath wasn’t much of a talker, and Neesa had fallen asleep fifteen minutes into the ride, only waking up as they rolled into town mid-afternoon. “It’s not high season, but it looks pretty busy,” she said, taking in the sights as she blinked at the bright sunshine. “I think we’ll still blend in well enough.”
“Maybe you will,” he said.
She waved off the notion. “You’ll look like my American boyfriend. Um, except we won’t be holding hands or kissing or anything,” she quickly added.
He shot her a sort-of grin she couldn’t quite interpret. “That’s actually not a bad cover when we’re out in public. The less we look like two nosy unconnected people, the better.”
The thought had her hand going to her collarbone. “We could hold hands, I suppose.”
“You know what they say, though, that once we go there, we can’t go back to not holding hands.”
Now he was grinning, or maybe just teasing her a bit. “I think we can handle it.”
The roads here weren’t well maintained, and trash often littered either side. She loved all the colorful open-air restaurants and carts, flying their banners proclaiming pollo asado and Corona. It was a decent town, not sparkly but clean and regular. They turned toward the Gulf and continued along the beachline. Beyond Rath’s profile, she gazed at the vivid blue water, the waves topped by thin whitecaps.
“The beach is huge here,” she said, taking momentary solace in the endless horizon. Flashes of her last visit here pummeled her, bittersweet. Breathe in, breathe out.
“You okay?” he asked.
“What do you mean? I’m just enjoying the view.”
“You’re breathing heavily.”
The man missed nothing. Ugh.
“I’m doing conscious breathing. Did you know that when we’re stressed, we stop breathing? Or do it very shallowly? By taking deep breaths, it calms your sympathetic system, or the fight or fight response. It activates the parasympathetic system, which signals that you’re safe and that you can relax. I use breathing techniques in my practice to help my patients process out of flashbacks or anticipatory fear. I’ve worked with veterans who have overcome their PTSD symptoms. You should try it.”
“I need my fight-or-flight handy right now. A lot of the time, actually.”
“You can’t sustain yourself in that mode twenty-four-seven, you know. You’ll burn out.”
He flicked her a glance. “Might already be too late.”
“That’s why I prefer working with women. They’re more open to healing techniques and more willing to actually admit they need them.”
“Way I see it, there’s no point in looking back,” he said, ignoring her inference. “There ain’t nothing to see behind you. If you spend too much time looking back, you’re going to run into something. I look to the future, not the past.”
She could only shake her head at him. “That’s fine if your past isn’t tainting your present. People shove their pain and insecurities deep down, but like a seed buried deep in the earth, eventually it’s going to sprout. Then before you know it, you have this ugly, prickly tree in your garden growing out of control. You have to make peace with the seed and release it to the wind, so it never gains a hold.”
“Or you just keep whacking it to the ground.” He knew he was just being stubborn by the smirk on his face.
“It’ll find a way out, trust me.”
“What’s the address?”
She started paying attention to the buildings across the street from the beach, looking for the address. “My father’s apartment is on this road. Maybe one of these beautiful buildings on either side of us.”
“Where did you stay last time?” he asked.
“A nice hotel with a pool and restaurant.” She pointed to the beach. “See those little palm frond huts? Those are palapas, and you can rent one with two chairs for five dollars. It was so cool to sit under one and sink my feet into the sand.” She sighted the next address. “Okay, we’re getting close.”
Unfortunately, the address did not belong to one of the nicer buildings but instead to an old two-story white motel lookalike with yellow accents. Rath’s truck fit in perfectly. When she stepped out of the truck, she stood in the sunshine for a second. “It’s warm, probably low eighties. No wonder it’s busy.”
She pulled out her bag, and Rath got the other two bags, and they headed to the office. She employed the deep breathing as they approached the door. Everything could fall apart here in so many ways. Then she coughed at the smell of paint fumes once they stepped inside the small area.
The man painting the wall behind the desk straightened as the bell dinged, a wide smile beneath his mustache. “Hola,” he greeted, setting the brush down on the flat pan. “How can I help you?”
“Are you León?” she asked, and when he nodded, she told him who she was.
“I hope your father is okay. He paid far ahead and then hasn’t been here in a while.”
“Do you know how long?”
He lifted a shoulder. “I don’t pay attention to people coming and going, but it’s been a long time. Six months or more.”
She looked at Rath. “Since the…”
Defuckle, neither had to say.
“Has anyone been in his room?” Rath asked. “That you may have noticed.”
“No, sir.”
“What about cleaning people?” he pressed.
León shook his head, a chagrinned smile on his round face. “We have mostly long-term renters here. Ex-pats, those escaping from life. No cleaning crew unless they bring someone in on their own.” He handed her a ring with a key and an envelope. “He did say that if he wasn’t able to return to give this to you.”
She clutched the white envelope. “Thank you.” She gave him her credit card. “Please put the past month’s rent on this and one more month.” At the least, he’d have a financial buffer in case he didn’t rent the room right away.
They followed León’s directions up the stairs to the end unit on the second floor.
Each room had a small balcony that jutted out opposite the door with two plastic chairs and a table. She unlocked the door and stepped inside what was basically a motel room with a tiny kitchen. It was dark and stuffy, one queen-sized bed and a dresser, TV on a stand, and a bathroom. And everywhere, there were framed photos of her and her mother.
Rath picked one up, from a trip to Disneyworld when she was ten. “Your mother was beautiful,” he said with an undertone of reverence. “I can see a lot of you in her.”
That made her smile a little, the double compliment. “Thank you. She was a beautiful person, inside and out.”
“I notice you touch your cross when you talk about her. Is that hers?”
It was a little unnerving how he paid attention to her subtleties. “She had it on when she met my father in Colombia. She considered it lucky and sacred.” Though it hadn’t kept her safe on that final day because she’d given it to Neesa. Here, take this.
Mamá, it’s yours.
I would give my life for you. For now, I give you this.
Neesa picked up one of the photos, too, from when they’d come down to visit her father here. They stood on the beach, arms linking, the blue water behind them and the breeze washing her and her mother’s hair across their faces.
“Is that here?” Rath asked.
She nodded, unable to speak with the emotion clogging her throat. One day they were happy, and the next…
“He misses you both a lot,” he said, taking in the pictures everywhere. On the nightstand, the bathroom counter, taped to the small fridge.
Again, she only nodded. How could she convey the depth of it without telling him everything? Maybe she should. But what happened was a direct link to the defuckle. Finally, she cleared her throat and said, “He held tight to the past. To the happy times.”
He was looking at a photo of her when she was maybe six, peering around a door with a cheeky smile. “Were you and your father close?”
“I was closer to my mother than my father, this sweeping figure who’d come home for a few weeks at a time and give me so much love to make up for when he was gone. He brought gifts and, more importantly, a normal family life. He did all the handyman stuff, cleaned, even cooked. He had free time when he came, and he wanted to disconnect completely from his dangerous, shadowy work.”
“Did he tell you much about it? I mean, when you were older?”
“Not really. He said he was doing a small part in trying to bring down the people who brought drugs to our country. Then he’d be gone again, doing the occasional video call with us.” She smiled softly. “He would leave me notes with clues to toys he’d hidden around our house and property. So it would feel like he was here even when he wasn’t, he said. Of course, it wasn’t the same, but I loved the thought.” She glanced up to see Rath watching what was probably a lot of emotions crossing her face. Then she realized her eyes were watering up, one tear sliding down her cheek, which she wiped away. “I’m so scared that he’s gone, too.”
She both worried that Rath would comfort her and dreaded that he would. Maybe her emotions were uncomfortable for him because he turned away and went to the door that adjoined the next room. It was locked.
“It’s always good to make sure the door is locked,” he said. “Anyone from over there could just mosey on in here.”
“Oh, good point.”
She checked in the bathroom and noted the basic toiletries. Opened the drawers and found some clothes in the dresser, rifling through them for anything hidden beneath or between them. Rath was keeping an eye on her as he checked the tiny closet.
“This bed is a mite smaller than the last one,” he said, nodding his chin to the bed. “I’ll ask if the room next door is available. That way, we’re connected, but you have your space.” But instead of, um, moseying down to the office, he plopped down on the bed. “Well, aren’t you going to open the envelope?”
“Right, of course.” This was where it could all fall apart. Worse than possibly losing Rath’s help was losing faith in her father. Far, far worse.
She sank to the bed, slowly tearing along the edge of the envelope and pulling out the notebook paper. She read it in her head, forgetting about Rath for that moment.
Dear sweet pea,
If you’re reading this, I must be gone. I’m sorry for any pain I’ve caused you, and will cause you. Being here is something I had to do, as fighting these bad men became my obsession. Yes, as you accused me of being, obsessed. Please do not blame yourself for anything. You couldn’t have stopped any of this from happening. Pack up all of my belongings here, take them back to America, and never come back.
It’s important that you think about the good times. Remember that little two-room cottage we lived in when you were four? Where I started hiding treasures for you to find. Do you remember it? Too many places, I know. I’ve done bad things for the right reasons, and you’ve paid the price. Both you and your mother. For that, I’m most sorry.
Love you, princess,
Papá
She was reading it a second time when she realized Rath was doing so over her shoulder. He’d so subtly moved up beside her that she hadn’t even noticed.
“What bad things has he done?” he asked.
She was trying to read into the letter, the things that didn’t make sense. The message hidden within. “Um…dragging us all over the country, I guess. My mother said he was blind to our discomfort, so driven by his purpose.”
Rath made a skeptical hmm sound. He stood and did a search behind the nightstand, under the old phone and lamp, behind the headboard, and under the edges of the mattress. Then he opened the fridge and freezer, checked the cabinets.
“What are you looking for?” she asked.
“Anything that might help.” After checking inside the curtains, he said, “I’m going down to ask about the room. Be right back.”
She dove back into the letter. Sweet pea. That was not a nickname he’d used for her, so it meant something.
Pea.
Sweet.
Peas, please, appease, green, vegetable.
Sweet, nice, sugar…
She lunged for the jar containing sugar for his coffee, jamming her fingers into the crystals, feeling for anything out of the ordinary. But she couldn’t reach the bottom, so she dumped it into the mug. Nothing. She shook the can of coffee grounds, then opened that and sifted through it.
The sound of the key in the lock had her jumping. Damn, he’d been fast. He opened the door to find her scooping coffee into the coffee maker. “Want a cup?”
“Nah, I’m not a coffee guy.”
She pushed the sugar back into the jar. “I dumped it over accidentally, made a mess. Any luck?”
“All the units are occupied. And I’m not going to another hotel without you. But we could find two rooms elsewhere.”
“I want to stay here.” Her father had left a treasure hunt for her. “Um, we can share the bed again. No way would either of us want to sleep on this floor.”
The tile looked dingy, old, and dusty. And hard.
“Fine with me if it’s fine with you.”
It wasn’t, not really. She was terrified last night that she’d roll into him, or even worse, cuddle up with him. Not that he looked cuddly, but still, how embarrassing would that be? Hard as he was, all lean muscle, she felt a longing to curl up in his arms. A terrible, all-consuming longing that crept into her dreams. She shrugged. “Gotta do what we gotta do.”
She set her luggage on the bed and opened it, unpacking some of the food she’d brought from the house. She tucked two treats into her bag. The folded letter went in, too. “I’m going to change. Then let’s get an early dinner and go to the beach for sunset. I could use some downtime.”
“Sure.”
She noticed his brief appraising look when she stepped out of the bathroom in shorts and a dark-pink tank top. The flash of interest or at least appreciation. Right before he pulled his sunglasses from his shirt pocket as he opened the door and held it open with his body.
“Now I look like a tourist.” She took the opportunity to do the same kind of appraisal on him. “Don’t you have, like, beachy clothing? At least shoes for the sand?”
He arched an eyebrow over the top of his dark shades. “Do I look like a beachy guy? Who would wear sandals?” He tapped his short boot heel against the scuffed door.
She tried to imagine him out of the knit green shirt and faded jeans that she knew had a hidden pocket at the side for his gun. Well, not out of them but in something less rustic. “I suppose not.”
“Me, I go for the don’t fuck with me look.”
Those words reminded her that she was doing just that by withholding information. She knew she was walking a fine line between possibly losing him...and having sensual thoughts about him that would make things very, very messy.