Angela’s cursing from behind the door grows in volume and intensity.
Bud shouts a slur.
A pause.
And then the unmistakable sound of glass shattering.
Alma flinches, and I grab her hand in mine.
“Efren,” she whispers, turning her glossy eyes to me. “What happened that night?”
I don’t answer right away. Skepticism snakes through my mind as I watch her.
“Why are you asking me now?” I say carefully. “You already know what happened.”
She opens her mouth, then closes it again. That hesitation sets something off in me.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Alma yelps as I grip her wrists and pin them above her head.
Her back arches from the bed, and I straddle her, pushing all my weight down as I tug the hem of her hoodie up. I check quickly for a wire or anything that would explain why this suddenly feels like a trap. When I find nothing, I release her and step away.
“You can’t just fucking ask questions like that!” I grit out.
My movements are restless as I pace the room. This bastard feeling emerges, and it’s an emotion new to me. Guilt. Or maybe it’s just anger. At myself, at fucking Esteban, or evenat the thought that I don’t believe her. She’s said nothing this far. Even when I saw the police take her in for questioning, she didn’t break. But I’d also seen Detective Johnson return several times to the trailer like she had unfinished business.
“What did you tell the cops?” I ask, paranoia getting the best of me.
“Nothing! I told them nothing,” she cries. “I’m going home.”
She stands looking at me, hurt and confusion pouring from her big brown eyes. Moonlight cuts across her face, and I can see it clearly now—she’s pale. Lips dry. Her hands are hanging stiff at her sides, fingers curled inward like she’s bracing for impact.
“Stop.” An unfamiliar desperation is building inside me. “I’m sorry. Don’t go.”
I’ve memorized her every feature, her large brown eyes framed by thick lashes and gently arched brows. She has one of those button noses that Angela would boast about.
“Ay, qué linda Alma, con esa naricita,” she says every time she looks at a picture of Esteban and Alma.
For me though, it’s always been her lips that are the most enticing. The fullness of them always inviting me in like they’re doing right now. Two full strides and I’m standing in front of her, our bodies inches apart.Her eyes flick over my face, my mouth, my chest. Not desire exactly—something searching.
“Efren,” she whispers my name like a warning, but I don’t stop.
Ilower my mouth toward hers. I feel it before it happens. The way her body stiffens and her breath catches. At the last second, she turns her face away, my lips brushing the corner of her mouth instead of meeting it. She pulls back quickly, like she’s been burned.
“I can’t,” she says, her voice distant, thin. “Esteban was just?—”
She stops. Swallows. Her eyes unfocus for a beat, drifting past me like she’s looking at the very ghost of him.
“Fuck Esteban,” I growl as something cold crawls up my spine. “Get out.”
“Efren,” she says, shaking her head. “He’s your brother.”
“Why the fuck are you defending him?” I snap. “After what he did to you?”
“I don’t know what he did!” she shouts.
For a second, I believe her.
And that’s what makes it worse.
