“What’s wrong?” he murmurs.
“I can’t stop thinking about Genesis,” I admit quietly. “What that lunatic is going to do with her.”
My fingers brush one of his bruises. He barely flinches before catching my hand and pressing a kiss to my palm. His gaze studies my face carefully as he tucks a loose curl behind my ear.
“I need…” My voice thins. “I need to see him.”
His brows draw together, but he doesn’t question me. After everything I told him about Ignacio and Raquel, he promised to support whatever I decided. In the same way, I support his decision not to have a relationship with Patricio. A long breath leaves him. His shoulders relax.
“I’ll walk you,” he offers.
I shake my head. “No. I need to do this alone.”
“Okay,” he whispers. “But don’t go far. The truck’s loaded and waiting outside.”
“I’ll be right back.”
I slide carefully off the bed, mindful of the IV line taped tothe back of his hand, and cross to the bag Thalia brought me. Inside is a soft blue T-shirt and jeans. I dress slowly, tugging the shirt down over the adhesive patches still stuck to my ribs from earlier vitals.
Efren watches me the whole time—jaw tight, eyes following every movement. When I reach for my hair tie, he pushes himself upright with a quiet hiss and pulls the IV catheter free.
“Efren!” I gasp.
“I’m fine,” he says calmly, pressing gauze over the site like he’s done it before. “I’ll deal with the nurse.”
He smooths the flyaways at the nape of my neck, fingers lingering, then crouches to grab my socks and shoes. I sit on the bench as he slides the socks onto my feet and eases my white Vans on after, his movements careful despite his pain.
“Take your time,” he murmurs, kissing my temple.
I stand, steadying my hands. Efren rises with me, eyes never leaving my face.
“I’ll be right outside,” he says.
I nod and step into the hallway.
It’s quiet as I walk toward room 317. Gael kept us updated on Ignacio’s surgery. The bullet missed a major artery but clipped a nerve branch. He’ll walk again, they think, but there’s a real chance he’ll need a cane long-term.
I stop in front of the door. My fingers hesitate on the handle, trembling despite my grip, before I finally push it open. Ignacio is asleep, head tilted slightly to the side. His injured leg is elevated and heavily wrapped, a monitor pulsing softly beside him.
Then my gaze shifts to the window.
And my heart stops whensheturns to face me.
She’s beautiful in that quiet, ageless way many Latina women carry. It’s a kind of beauty that isn’t loud like Missy’s was. I try not to compare the two women and instead focuson her. Her rich brown hair brushed back behind her ears, falling in soft waves that graze her collarbone.
There are soft creases at the corners of her eyes and faint shadows beneath them. And her eyes. The deep, dark brown eyes I felt drawn to the first time I met her. They hold warmth but also something achingly familiar.
“I knew,” she finally says. “I knew the moment I saw you, it was you.”
Her mouth parts, and her breath catches. Tears gather instantly in her eyes, shimmering before they fall.
“Alma…” she whispers, voice breaking open.
The ache inside me drags me to her, my arms embracing her tightly. For a few seconds, I let myself exist in her hold. I push back the questions, and I don’t try to make sense of anything. Two things could be true at once, Efren had told me. I could love Missy and still know what she did to this woman was wrong.
When I finally pull back, her hands frame my face, thumbs brushing my cheeks as if memorizing me.
“You look just like your father,” she whispers. “But your eyes, your eyes are mine. I’d know them anywhere.”
