“Don’t you start with that crap, ’mano. And in case you’re gonna ask another stupid question, I got it at a gun show in Idaho and haven’t had time to register it, so it’s clean.”
He took a mug from a shelf and filled it from the coffee maker, then went to lean against the counter but caught himself, pulled a fat envelope from his back pocket, and tossed it onto the table. Rubber-banded stacks of greenbacks spilled from the open flap. “Ten thousand, mixed bills, what I had in the safe at home.”
“Manny, I told you—”
Manny gave him a benevolent look. “Ashes. Shut the fuck up. Wasn’t for you, I’d have been dead years ago, along with most of my guys. So I’m here, ’mano. Let me help.”
Marines, Peter thought. Gratitude filled his chest like oxygen. “Thank you, brother. I appreciate it.”
Manny waved it away. “Now tell me what the hell we’re dealing with.”
But Peter was looking at the doorway to the living room, where Ellie stood, nervous as a cat.
He couldn’t imagine what it would be like to wake up the morning after watching your mother get killed. First stretching, feeling rested, feeling good. Maybe thinking that the day was like any other. Then a moment later remembering that your whole life had been blown apart. That maybe you would never be okay again.
She’d clearly slept in her clothes. Her hair was wild and her face was puffy from sleep, giving her a slightly feral air.
He said, “Good morning, Ellie. This is my friend Manny Martinez. Manny, this is Ellie Thorsen. Katelyn Thorsen’s daughter.”
Manny said, “I’m sorry for your loss, Ellie.”
She didn’t look at him. Instead she eyed the pistol and the envelope of cash. “What’s going on?”
“I got some pastries if you’re hungry,” Peter said. “Do you want to take a shower, maybe change your clothes?”
She nodded. “Can I have some coffee?”
Peter didn’t know how to answer that. The girl was thirteen. “Uh, did your mom let you have coffee?”
“All the time.” She straightened up and stood with her hands thumbs-forward on her narrow hips. Suddenly she looked like a young woman. “I have the Starbucks app on my phone.”
Peter turned to Manny, the father of four daughters. Manny threw up his hands. “Don’t look at me. My oldest is eleven and she still likes juice boxes.”
“Thanks for nothing.” Peter took a mug from the cupboard and set it by the coffee maker.
Ellie stepped forward, filled the mug, and stirred in enough cream and sugar to make a pint of gelato. “Where is my phone, anyway?”
“We’ll talk about that when you come back,” Peter said.
She grabbed two Danishes from the plate and headed for the stairs. “I’ll be down in twenty minutes.”
Peter heard a car door slam and looked out the window. A black-haired woman in a bright yellow raincoat and matching gum boots bustled toward the house. He met her at the back door.
“Peter!” Short and round with pronounced curves, she wrapped her arms around him. When Carlotta Martinez gave you a hug, you damn well knew it. Then she held him out at arm’s length and stared him full in the face. “How are you? Tell me what happened.”
Carlotta was a clinical psychologist turned headhunter for tech firms looking to hire in-house mental health professionals to help their stressed-out, overachieving executives. She still had that therapist’s empathetic look.
As the sound of the upstairs shower gurgled through the thin ceiling, Peter told them the story from the beginning. The threat letter, the attempts on KT’s life, the gunman’s success at the motel. Peter barely getting the girl out with her life. His conviction that there was something larger going on.
When he was done, Carlotta said, “All that must have been hard on you.”
“It was a lot harder on Ellie.” Peter’s response was sharper than he’d intended.
Carlotta nodded calmly. “That may be. But you know it’s not your fault, right?”
“Of course it is,” Peter said. “I said I’d protect them both and I failed.”
Manny put his thick hand on Peter’s arm. “You didn’t pull the trigger, Ashes. It’s not on you. You did the best you could.”
