“We’re kind of a big deal,” Cassie said, a singsong tone in her voice.
I smiled at her, but I knew there was still another case to solve.
Anything could happen.
The world started spinning, so I got my hotel room key card. But before I could walk off, Frank pulled me into a hug.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Nothing happened yet,” I replied. “You still have to talk to Poulton.”
“I know,” he replied. “But thank you.”
I got in the elevator and leaned my head against the wall. Barely made it to my room and crashed onto the hotel room bed.
As I did, some details finally resolved in my mind. The cut in Araceli Alvarez’s facial bone. Just like the cut Jo had made when she went looking for the bullet.
The answer was there, and so was another one. Thewhat, even if thewhywas still unknown.
And then all the answers faded away into some black hole where discoveries made under the influence go, and I fell fast asleep.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
At 9 a.m., I heard a knock on my door. It was Frank, dressed in yesterday’s suit, which somehow looked pressed.
“Ten minutes,” he said. “I’m walking back to the bar to find the rental car.”
I looked in the mirror. My eyes were bloodshot, and my hair was sticking up. I splashed handfuls of water on my face and tried to clean up my appearance. Grabbed my things and moved downstairs.
In the lobby, Cassie was pacing the floor, headphones in, drinking a Red Bull.
“Morning, Agent Camden,” she said.
“Morning, Agent Pardo,” I replied.
It was an odd feeling. We had solved what would probably be the Bureau’s biggest case of the year. Yet we couldn’t relax. A man we knew very little about had likely killed eight women and one man.
He had also killed our first C.I., Freddie Pecos. Shot him to death in his own trailer: a case we knew close to nothing about. If we did, it might lead us right to El Médico’s true identity.
The black rental SUV pulled up outside, and we got in. Headed to the airport.
An hour later, we’d landed in Gainesville via private jet and rented another SUV. Frank was driving us to the hotel to pick up Shooter and Richie.
“Shooter spent the night down South,” Cassie said, leaning forward from the back seat. “She met with the ME down there and made the hike back up this morning.”
“Good,” Frank said, pointing the car toward Shilo.
Alongside the road were small corridors of cypress that hid waterways leading to hammocks of hardwoods that were a thousand years old.
I closed my eyes for a moment, my brain still exhausted and my head feeling thick. Everything faded to black.
When I opened them again, I was in a backyard in Miami. I scanned the faces that I saw. A younger Rosa. Saul. My ex, Anna. A handful of guys from the office who liked Saul but did not care for me.
My eyes landed on Camila, seated in a high chair, wearing a pink Mexican-style dress. My mother stood beside her, emboldening Camila to do something.
“Go on,” she said, encouraging her. “Do what feels good. Have fun.”
And Camila did. She lodged her hands deep inside her birthday cake and rubbed them all over her face, the icing coating her cheeks. My mother laughed, and I heard people clap.
