I can’t see the gun.
Not from where I am at least, sitting here on this rock, my back to the building and all the police.
I can see the ocean but I can’t see the beach down below, and it’s because of that I can’t see the gun.
I mean, yes, I don’t want to see the gun. If I threw it hard enough, it should have splashed down into the water. If luck is on my side, the tide would have taken the gun out far enough where it would have sunk to the bottom.
But if luck isn’t on my side—if I didn’t throw the gun out far enough or the tide somehow washed it back onto shore—then I’m screwed.
There’s no telling how long they intend to keep me here. I’ve given them my information, answered questions, played the part of a worried, frantic tourist the best I could, but maybe it wasn’t enough. Because they told me I couldn’t leave yet, that I had to wait, and just what the hell am I waiting for? To give them time to canvas the area? So that somebody can make their way down to the beach and maybe stumble across the gun I’d thrown. If it hasn’t touched water, there’s a good chance my prints will still be on it. And if it did manage to get in the water … would that be enough to scrub my prints? Even if they find the gun, there’s a good chance they won’t immediately link it to me, but still I don’t want it to get to that point.
So I’m sitting on the rock, staring at the edge of the bluff, trying to spot the gun, when I hear footsteps approaching from behind.
A man clears his throat and speaks accented English.
“Miss Lu?”
I twist to look back over my shoulder. A man wearing a mask stands several yards away. His eyes are dark. He’s not wearing a uniform like the others—he has on khakis and a blue polo shirt—but it’s clear he’s a cop.
“My name is Ramon. I would like to ask you some questions.”
He motions at the two officers watching over me, and the two officers head back to the others without a word.
Ramon says, “What state?”
“I’m sorry?”
“You are from America, yes? What state are you from?”
“California.”
“Where in California?”
“San Diego. I go to school there.”
Is the man trying to trip me up? It’s hard to say. These questions can simply be an icebreaker of sorts before he starts to really dig in. I gave the other officers my basic information—I’d memorized the entire cover, even the insubstantial bullshit like who I went to prom with in high school and the name of my favorite professor—and those officers no doubt shared that information with Ramon.
Speaking of which …
“Are you a detective?”
“In a way. I am a crime scene investigator.”
“Am I free to leave?”
“Not yet. I need to ask you a couple more questions.”
“Like what?”
“Like what happened to your face.”
Direct. I like it.
I look away from him for a couple seconds, showing my irritation but also my discomfort. Because this, too, is part of my cover story. Not added to the Samantha Lu cover that Atticus gave me, but my own cover story because I always knew there was a chance it would come up.
“I’d rather not talk about it.”
Ramon is quiet for a beat.
“I understand.”
“It’s just”—I shake my head—“I don’t want to talk about him.”
Ramon says nothing.
I give it another couple seconds, staring past the man, before I look back at him. And now, to add the finishing touch, a tear rolls down my cheek.
“My boyfriend did it, okay?”
This isn’t technically a lie. Zane is responsible for what happened to my face, not to mention my broken rib. The only thing is, of course, for two years I had believed Zane was dead, killed by my father, until he showed up recently to kidnap the Hadden children.
I sigh, shake my head again.
“He sometimes got jealous, but he never did anything about it other than shout at me. Like, I never even flirted with other guys, but one night he thought I had hooked up with this guy at a bar and then he … well, he did this.”
I don’t bother pointing at my face to indicate what this is. I let the bruises speak for themselves.
Ramon asks, “Where is your boyfriend now?”
If we’re talking about Zane, the answer is dead. But if we’re talking about Samantha Lu’s boyfriend …
“I don’t know, and I don’t care. I left him. I hope I never see him again. I should have”—I hitch my voice for dramatic effect—“I know I should have pressed charges but I … I just didn’t, okay? I know it was stupid, but I didn’t feel like dealing with it. And so I just wanted to get away. That’s why I got in the car and drove south. I didn’t even realize I was planning to come to Mexico until I’d crossed the border.”
Ramon is silent again. He glances out toward the ocean, then back toward the building and the crowd of police, before turning back to me.
“What brought you out here?”
“I told you, I didn’t plan on coming to Mexico. I had to get away from—”
“No. I mean what brought you out here, to this specific location?”
He gestures at the building as if his words aren’t specific enough. Like he thinks I’m not focused right now. Which is good. That means my act is working.
“I saw smoke.”
“You saw smoke.”
“Yes. From the road. It seemed … wrong. Like it wasn’t supposed to be there.”
“So you turned off the highway.”
“Yes.”
“What did you intend to do once you found the source of the smoke?”
“You mean like the fire? I don’t know. Probably call 911. Though, like, is 911 even the emergency number down here? I guess first I just wanted to make sure nothing was wrong. Like, maybe it was some people burning trash or something. But then I saw the building was on fire, and I just—”
I let it hang there, closing my eyes and shaking my head.
Ramon says, “Why did you go inside?”
“I don’t know. It was stupid of me, I admit that, but at the moment I worried that maybe somebody was inside. I mean, there wasn’t any fire at that point, it was just smoke, so I went inside and—”
I shake my head again, forcing pain into my face at the mere memory.
“It was awful. I mean … what happened?”
“That’s something we’re still investigating.”
He doesn’t say anything else, just stands there staring at me with his greenish gray eyes. I’m pretty good when it comes to staring contests, but today is not a day to challenge this man.
I look away from Ramon, back toward the building.
“Am I in some kind of trouble?”
“Why would you be in trouble?”
“The other officers told me I had to wait here. They said I couldn’t leave. I’ll be honest—I’m scared.”
“What is there to be scared about?”
Now it’s my turn—Samantha Lu’s turn, really—to not answer.
Ramon says, “You no doubt hear stories about police corruption here in Mexico. I am not going to lie to you and say it does not exist, but you have nothing to worry about.”
“Why are you wearing a mask?”
I know the answer but am curious to hear Ramon’s response.
He says, “It is to protect myself and my family.”
“I noticed some other officers wearing masks too. Who do you need to protect yourselves from?”
He pauses a beat, as if giving it much thought, before answering.
“Mexico is not always safe for law enforcement.”
“Because of the cartels?”
Ramon offers up a half nod.
Now I play the part of a scared-out-of-her-mind tourist.
“Jesus Christ, I’m not wearing a mask! Do I need to be worried about anything?”
He shakes his head but says nothing.
I take a breath, let the fear slowly drain from my face.
“Then … am I free to leave?”
“Not quite yet. First, was there anything you noticed when you drove up to the building?”
“Such as what?”
“Such as anything out of the ordinary.”
I give it a couple seconds before shaking my head.
“I’m sorry, nothing comes to mind.”
“That’s okay. I am sorry we kept you so long.”
I wait a moment in case he has anything else to say, and when he doesn’t, I stand up from the rock. I don’t start walking toward the building and the Civic, though. Instead, I stare out at the ocean.
“It’s such a beautiful view.”
Ramon says nothing to this.
I take a couple steps forward.
Uneasiness enters Ramon’s voice.
“What are you doing?”
I stand on the very edge of the bluff to look out over the ocean. And down at the beach. Nothing glints in the sunlight, so hopefully the gun did hit the water when I threw it.
I turn back and force a smile.
“Like I said, it’s a beautiful view.”
Ramon leads me back to the building without a word. He collects my ID from one of the officers and returns it to me. Among the officers milling around is an older man, who looks to be in his late-fifties. He stands by a sedan and smokes but doesn’t say anything. He gives me a brief look before turning away and lighting another cigarette.
Ramon says, “Take care of yourself, Miss Lu. Be safe.”
I just nod and start toward the Civic. As I do, another older man leaning against a pickup truck closes his phone and shouts excitedly at Ramon.
“My contact at the phone company confirmed a call was placed on the pay phone three hours ago.”
Ramon says, “To where?”
“A motel.”
They speak Spanish but I’m able to understand them without any trouble. I don’t want to be too obvious that I’m eavesdropping, of course, so I slide in behind the Civic’s steering wheel and start the engine.
Ramon and the man with the cell phone climb into the pickup truck and seconds later they’re speeding back up the dirt drive, kicking up a dust cloud in their wake.
I throw the Civic in gear but don’t drive as fast as the truck ahead of me, despite the fact I don’t want to miss where it turns. There’s a chance it may be gone by the time I make it through the dust cloud, and I want to know whether it turns left or right onto the road. Because despite the fact I should know better—despite the fact I should drive straight toward Nogales to cross over the border—I need to know where these men are going. I need to know who Maria called this morning, hours before she was burned to death.