Sydney
Hugh and Santiago’s house is still standing. Rain and wind ripped off palm fronds and tore shingles from their roof, but there are no stains from receded flood waters. The destructive, toxic waters that picked up homes in other neighborhoods, swirling them around—moving refrigerators and couches as easily as wind blows dust—did not reach this street.
I pull the Jeep into their circular driveway and spot Santiago in the yard, shirtless and raking up branches.
He mops at his brows with the sweatband at his wrist and squints as I climb out of the rental. Recognizing me, Santiago grins, his smile lighting up the whole block.
He drops his rake, and in a few long strides, picks me up and spins me around. I laugh and hug him back—he’s sweaty and smells of soil and plants.
“You are a sight for sore eyes,” he says, putting me down. “Hugh will be so happy to see you.”
Blue gives a bark and wags his tail, excited to see Santiago as well. I left Nila and Frank back at the hotel with Mulberry.
“Sorry I didn’t check in earlier,” I say as Santiago bends down to give Blue a good petting.
“Oh, honey, we’ve all been busy.” He smiles up at me.
“I lost my phone,” I shrug.
Santiago raises one brow. “Uh-huh.”
Hugh and Santiago know who I am, they know what I do, and are smart enough not to ask questions that, if answered honestly, could threaten their safety.
“Sydney!”
Santiago and I both turn to the house—Hugh stands on the front steps. It’s a one-story bungalow built in the twenties and has that era’s romance and charm.
Hugh, wearing jean shorts and a T-shirt streaked with dirt, gives me a hug almost as enthusiastic as his husband’s. We grin at each other. “Good to see you,” I say.
“Can you believe this?” Hugh asks, releasing me so he can greet Blue.
“Your neighborhood survived well,” I say. The other homes that line the street seem to have fared about the same as Hugh and Santiago’s. Whirring generators can be heard up and down the block—people here were prepared.
“It’s one reason I said we should buy in this neighborhood,” Santiago says, his voice sad, as if he wished he hadn’t been right.
“How’s the restaurant?” I ask. Hugh and Santiago own James, one of the most beloved restaurants in Miami, and it sits on much lower ground. Named after my brother, it took me a long time to get comfortable going there, but it’s become one of my favorite places in the city.
Santiago shakes his head, but it’s Hugh who answers me. “We can rebuild.”
“I’m sorry.” And I am. They put so much work into that space, filled it with love and hospitality. It was more than a restaurant.
“Thanks,” Hugh puts his arm around my shoulder and pulls me close. “But we are both healthy. And we have our home. Really, we’re the lucky ones.” I lean into him, taking a deep breath and enjoying his gratitude. “Robert’s house must be…”
“It’s fucked,” I say, bluntly.
Santiago frowns. “I’m sorry, honey.”
I shrug. “Hey, we are all healthy, like Hugh said. It’s just stuff.” Robert’s strange mood comes back to me. He’s a father. That would be enough to throw anyone off. But Robert’s eyes seemed different. He looked at me differently—like a wolf watches a bunny before the kill.
I am no bunny.
“Come inside,” Hugh says, pulling me forward and out of my thoughts. “Let’s catch up.”
We eat peanut butter sandwiches and drink bottled water. “Something is going on with you?” Santiago says, his eyes narrowed, as I lick the last of the peanut butter from my fingers.
Hugh cocks his head. “Yeah…but I can’t put my finger on it.”
“She ate that sandwich too fast,” Santiago says.
“And she didn’t ask for a beer,” Hugh continues.
“Do her boobs look bigger?” Santiago drops his gaze to my chest.
“Hey!”
“They do,” Hugh nods.
“She’s pregnant!” Santiago yells, pointing at me.
A flush ignites at his accusation. “She is!” Hugh agrees, watching the color infuse my cheeks. “Oh my God!”
“Who is the father?” Santiago asks.
“Santiago,” Hugh hisses, putting a hand on his husband’s shoulder.
“What?” Santiago can’t seem to imagine why that question is awkward, which makes me laugh.
“Mulberry,” I admit.
“But when?” Santiago’s brow furrows. “When did you see him?”
“Right before your wedding,” I pick at crumbs on the table, so I don’t have to meet their eyes.
“Two months ago, at Robert’s house?” Santiago says. “How is Robert taking it?”
“We’ve never been romantically involved.” I sound defensive.
“If you say so,” Santiago smiles.
Hugh raises his brows at his husband in a shut up message.
“It’s okay,” I sigh. “You’re right, it’s such a mess.” I have an urge to lay my head on the table.
“Honey.” Hugh reaches out and covers my hand with his, offering me a warm, accepting smile. “I’m so happy for you. This is wonderful.”
“You sound like my mother.”
Hugh cocks his head. “Words I thought I’d never hear.” My mother and Hugh don’t get along—she refused to acknowledge his relationship with my brother, acted as if he didn’t deserve to mourn him, didn’t deserve to love him. A memory of her face, pinched with anger, telling me that James’s sins barred him from heaven flashes across my mind and exhaustion settles more firmly onto my shoulders.
“Sorry,” I say.
“I know she’s changed,” Hugh says. “I’m glad your mom is happy for you.”
“When are you due?” Santiago asks.
“I’m not sure.”
“Oh, we can figure it out.” Santiago pulls out his phone. “When did you and Mulberry…” He clears his throat and waggles his eyebrows.
“Personal much?” I joke. Santiago blows me a kiss, and I tell him.
“January twenty-first,” Santiago announces. My eyes jump to Hugh—he’s staring at me, too.
“What?”
“That’s James’s birthday,” Hugh answers, keeping his eyes on me.
“That’s…weird,” I say. “Right, that’s just bizarre. Am I crazy?”
“Oh for sure you’re nuts,” Santiago says with a laugh. “But you’re right, that is strange.” My hand covers my stomach. “Have you read Many Lives, Many Masters?” I shake my head. “It’s wild, all about past lives. How we travel in soul pods. Maybe James is coming back.”
I cringe at the words. There is no coming back.
The alarm on their oven dings, and Santiago jumps up, pulling two trays of food from the oven. The scent of lemon chicken reaches me, and my stomach growls. “Someone’s still hungry,” Santiago says as he pulls another two trays from their second oven.
“Why do you have so much food?” I ask.
“We are taking it over to a local shelter. So many people lost their homes. The least we can do is feed them.”
“That’s so nice of you.”
Hugh shakes it off. “It was all food from the restaurant. What should we do? Let it sit in our freezer when there are hungry people who’ve lost everything?”
“Let me help you.” I push back my chair to stand. I’m suddenly wobbly on my feet, and Hugh notices immediately.
“You need to rest,” he decrees. “Take a nap. You’re pregnant.”
Santiago spoons a few pieces of chicken onto a plate and leaves it on the counter. “Eat that before or after your rest. Preggers’s choice,” he says with a grin.
“I’m fine.” They both ignore me. “Really,” I press. Blue comes out from under the table and looks at me like he agrees with Hugh and Santiago. Traitor.
“You know where the guest room is.” Santiago finishes packing up the food and carries it toward the door.
“We’ll see you in a bit.” Hugh stops to kiss my forehead and ruffle Blue’s ears, before following his husband out.
Bastards.
The guest room windows are open, and I drift to sleep on a soft breeze. When I wake the sun is below the horizon and the sky a deep blue. I reach for my new phone and discover that it’s almost nine.
I only have one number memorized and I dial it, sitting on the edge of the bed while I listen to it ring. Robert doesn’t pick up. That’s not like him. Not like him at all.
He’s acting very strange.
Blue follows me out to the kitchen. I write a quick note to Hugh and Santiago while eating the plate of food they left me. I give Blue some kibble and then head out to my SUV.
Getting back to Star Island takes an hour, and the sky is dark by the time I get there. Stars twinkle above—clearer than I’ve ever seen them in the city. With so much of the metropolis without power, the night sky shines down on the ruins.
A guard I recognize sits in a chair at the entrance to Star Island—a shotgun across his lap. He stands when my headlights hit him. “Harry,” I say, rolling down my window.
“Sydney,” he says with a smile. “What are you doing here so late?”
“Forgot something when I was here earlier.”
He shakes his head, gesturing to the destruction around us. “So sad.”
“It is. How is your family?”
His lips firm. “We survived. And will rebuild.”
“Good to hear, Harry.”
“José is still there.” Harry points with his chin onto the island.
“Great, I look forward to seeing him. Robert left, though?”
“Right when I came on shift.”
I ignore the disappointment that tries to weigh me down. My tires bump over debris as I pull up to Robert’s house. The garden is totally denuded, exposing the single-story building.
I pick my way through the wreckage and go in the open front door. Blue taps my hip as we enter. Something is off.
I turn on my flashlight and rake the beam over the entryway—soggy bits and pieces of Robert’s house, and those of his neighbors, lay in drifts.
“Hello!” I call out.
A mumbled reply comes from the living room. I move cautiously toward the sound, my body tense. Blue trots ahead of me and gives a loud bark.
José, bound and gagged lies on the ground—his feet and hands held by zip ties and attached to each other with a third. He squints against the flashlight beam when it hits his face.
Blue gets to him first.
I pull the knife from my ankle holster and approach slowly, keeping my senses alert. But from Blue’s reaction, I’m assured we are alone.
I cut the zip tie connecting José’s wrists and ankles, and he groans through his gag as his legs flop to the ground. I release his hands and then his feet. José sits up and works on the duct tape covering his lips.
His eyes are wide with fear, and he is pulling at the tape with desperation. That’s when I notice the package taped to his chest—a clear plastic bag with a piece of paper in it.
José follows my gaze and pulls it free, holding it out to me. When I take it, he starts on the duct tape again.
Printed in black ink, the note reads: José will die in twenty four hours if you can’t get him the antidote. Come to the refugee center at sunrise if you want him to survive.
“Did they leave this for Robert?” I ask.
José shrugs, taking the paper from me. His face pales, and his eyes roll. I catch him as he tips to the side. José tries to take in a deep breath, the tape suctioning to his open mouth. “Breath through your nose,” I remind him. “Put your head between your knees.” I help him get his head down.
A puncture wound on the side of his neck catches my attention.
I rub José’s back. “Stay here,” I say. “I’ve got to get something from my car.” José nods but does not lift his head. “Blue, stay with him.”
I go back to the SUV and get the jar of coconut oil I use as a moisturizer out of my bag. José is sitting where I left him when I come back, his breath even. “Oil helps with the tape,” I tell him.
I work the oil on the edge of tape where it binds to his skin and pull slowly, applying more oil as I go. It takes almost twenty minutes to free his lips, and the tape leaves a red swath of irritated skin in its wake.
“Water.” José’s voice comes out cracked and dry.
“Hold on, I have some in the car.”
Leaving Blue with José again, I get a gallon of water from the trunk. He drinks deeply and winces when he wipes a sleeve over his wet lips.
“It will hurt for a while,” I say.
“What does that note mean?” he asks.
“You know more than me. What happened?”
“I’m not sure.” José takes another sip of water. “I met Mr. Maxim here. We were going over what was lost and discussing the rebuild. He left me here, and the last thing I remember is writing a note about…” José looks around and, spotting a leather notebook, grabs it and pulls it close. “The gun safe.”
“What about it?”
“It is still in place,” José says, looking at his notes. “But the flood water damaged it, so Mr. Maxim wanted us to order another.” He glances at me.
“Was there anything in it?”
José shrugs. “I don’t thinks so. Mr. Maxim didn’t open it. I just was putting down the dimensions.”
“I’ll check the safe.” Standing, I head toward Robert’s bedroom—the wall of glass is gone, opening the room to the elements. The four-poster bed is in pieces and scattered around the room. I can’t see the floor for all the sand and crap on top of it. I make my way to the closet, which no longer has a door.
Taller than me, and four feet wide, the safe is set into the wall, which was once painted an elegant gray and is now stained a muddy brown to my shoulder height. Putting in the code, I open the heavy door.
Inside is damp, but the top shelf remained dry. On it are two plastic cases I recognize as the cases for Robert’s dart guns. He designed them last year. They can hold six cartridges and deliver them with impeccable accuracy at short distances. He’s still working on a sniper version, but the weight of the cartridge and the liquid inside makes it more difficult. I pull the plastic cases out and open them. There they are, nestled in their foam. Extra cartridges next to them. None are missing.
I take the two cases with me and return to José.
“So, Robert left, and then you just…”
“Don’t remember. I should call Mr. Maxim.”
“Yes,” I agree.
He tries Robert, but there is no answer. José leaves a message, reading the note. “It must be for him,” José says to me. “The same people who tried to kill you in Cartagena, right?”
“I don’t know.”
There are tears in José’s eyes. “Will I?”
“No,” I grab his hand. “I’ll go if we can’t get ahold of Robert. Don’t worry. We will get you that antidote.”
“Should I go to the police, or a hospital?”
“The police are a bad idea—they will want to stake out the meeting point and could scare off whoever has the antidote. A hospital might help, but they’d call the police. Let me make some calls and see if there are any doctors in town that we can trust to be discreet. Where are you staying?”
“With friends,” he says.
“Let me drive you there. I’ll make some calls and figure something out. And we will probably get ahold of Robert soon. He’s never out of touch long.”
“Right,” José nods.
I help him up and we get back to my SUV. Leaving José’s scooter at the house, I give him a ride to where he is staying. Robert still hasn’t called by the time I’ve dropped him off but I get ahold of Dan, who starts the hunt for a doctor.
I call Anita as I drive back toward our hotel. “I need your help,” I say.
“What’s going on?”
“We need to go to the refugee center at dawn tomorrow.” I lay out what happened briefly.
“Let me make some calls.”
Next I try Robert again. He’s still not picking up. Unease settles in my stomach as I navigate to the hotel. Where is he?