I WAKE UP with harsh sunlight blasting through the blinds. I feel groggy and disoriented, trying to remember where I am and why on earth I’ve slept so late.
Then I remember: I’m at Megan’s.
And I slept this late—whatever time it is—because I didn’t go to sleep until after the sun was already up.
I sit up in bed. I’m still wearing my pants and T-shirt, but my tie and belt are draped over a chair in the corner, my boots on the floor underneath. My duffel bag sits on the floor, my gun belt tucked inside of it. My hat is perched atop the back of the chair. The dress shirt that I wore yesterday is nowhere to be seen, and neither is the tin star that was pinned to it.
A glass of water is sitting on the bedside table next to a hardback book. I take a big drink. The bedroom is small, with a compact desk in the corner and a bookshelf on one wall. Some of the titles I recognize from college English classes—Ceremony, Rain of Scorpions, and Bless Me, Ultima—but mostly they’re scholarly books I’ve never heard of, with words in the titles I’ve never seen before, like Intertextuality, Narratology, and Paraliterary.
I sit for a few seconds and blink the sleep from my eyes, then finish the water.
On the way to El Paso last night, I texted Megan and asked if I could come over instead of finding a hotel. I’d had a rough day and needed a friend. She worked at the bar until two o’clock, then waited up for me. When Ava dropped me off around five, Megan gave me a big hug, but there was no kissing, no making out. Getting lucky was the last thing on my mind.
We were both so tired we lay down on her bed, me in my pants and T-shirt, Megan in a pair of gym shorts and a tank top. With the sunrise leaking in through the blinds, I didn’t think I’d sleep—but I passed out like I’d just been given a sedative.
Now I rise to my feet, stretch my stiff muscles, and leave the bedroom. The soreness in my back from getting hit by the pool cue is gone, but I have plenty of fresh aches and pains from yesterday’s events. I follow the sound of a TV, turned low, and find Megan in her living room, her fingers clacking away on her laptop. A small TV sits against the wall, a commercial advertising a used-car lot in El Paso. The salesman, a fiftysomething man with hair that’s too blond and skin that’s too tan, boasts about the lowest prices and most extensive inventory on this side of the border.
“Good morning, sunshine,” Megan says when she sees me.
“Morning,” I say, my voice hoarse. “What time is it?”
She checks her monitor and says, “Time for a late lunch, if you’re hungry.”
“In a minute,” I say, and I slump down onto the couch. “I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck.”
She closes her computer and sets it on the coffee table, then picks up the remote and silences the used-car salesman just as he’s getting into a fervor over his stock of pre-owned vehicles. I notice my dress shirt is dangling from a plastic hanger suspended from a curtain rod. It’s been ironed and looks brand-new—except for the bullet hole. My star, which had been pinned to it, is lying on the coffee table.
“I washed your shirt,” she explains. “I would have done your pants, but I didn’t want you to wake up to find me undressing you and get the wrong idea.”
I smile, and we both share a chuckle. It feels good to laugh, but the reprieve is only temporary. I feel sad, guilty, useless. I keep telling myself I tried—it was Ryan who kicked me off the task force—but I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve let everyone down.
By everyone I mean Ava and Carlos, but also Fiona, who might still be alive, and Marta, who definitely is—or at least was last night.
I should call Carlos, but the fact that I haven’t heard from him already tells me that Ava’s done it for me. I’m sure he’s pissed at me, too. He probably thinks I should have been more diplomatic, found a way to stay on the federal team. Word has probably already gotten back to Captain Kane. I wonder what he’s going to think. He never wanted me involved in these cases anyway, so he might actually be relieved.
I run my hands through my hair and look around the apartment. A part-time bartender/part-time teacher/full-time student can’t make much money, but Megan seems to have done the best she can with limited means. The mismatched furniture and down-home wall decorations all work together to create an eclectic, comfortable living space.
“I’m sorry I crashed here,” I tell Megan. “I don’t mean to dump my troubles on you.”
I’m sure this isn’t the reunion she was hoping for, especially after I called her a few days ago and promised to take her out on a proper date. Instead, I’ve shown up at her place, beaten down and in no shape to be any fun at all.
“Why don’t you wait until tomorrow to head back?” she says.
I tell her I can’t go anywhere until Carlos returns my truck anyway.
“Good,” she says. “Spend one day here. With me.”