“Masks on,” Adrian orders.
The fabric scratches my cheek as I pull it down. Lurch and Ricky switch seats and peel off as Adrian, and I step out. Black pants. Hoodies. Ski masks. I tuck my pistol into my waistband.
“Open up!” Adrian says, pounding on the door.
The door swings wide. A large man in a brown robe scowls at us.
“What the fuck—” His eyes drop to the masks.
“We’re here for Dr. Verduzco,” I say, lifting my gun.
His jaw tightens. “For fuck’s sake.” He turns. “Salma—get down here.”
Within minutes, a petite woman with glasses appears. Her eyes widen as she takes us in.
“What’s going on?” she asks softly, her eyes bouncing between Alfredo and us.
“That’s what I want to know!” Alfredo shouts. “Is thisanother one of your psych ward escapees? I’m calling the cops.”
“The fuck you are,” Adrian says before his fist connects with Alfredo’s jaw.
Alfredo roars and barrels forward, all weight and rage, slamming Adrian into the wall. The frame rattles at the impact. Adrian grunts but doesn’t go down. He drives his elbow back, then again, until Alfredo staggers. Adrian swings once more and knocks Alfredo to the floor. He doesn’t hesitate and pulls his pistol, pressing it to Alfredo’s temple.
“No… please,” Salma says, her hands flying up. Her breath comes quick and shallow. “Whatever you want. Take it.”
Alfredo spits blood onto the floor but doesn’t move. I move into Salma’s view, tucking my weapon back in my waistband, and pull off the ski mask. Her gaze sharpens.
“You.” Her eyes narrow on me, taking me in fully before she speaks again. “I had a feeling you would come for me eventually.”
“You know him?” Alfredo gripes. “This is outrageous! Let me go! We have a baby sleeping upstairs.”
Salma ignores her husband and leads me to an office set up where the living room should be. There’s a large couch, a filing cabinet, and a desk, as well as various fidget toys and magazines set out on the coffee table.
Her bare feet slide across the floor as she moves to take a seat behind the desk. There’s a tired expression on her face, but there’s an unsettling calmness to her reaction towards me. It’s a drastic comparison to her husband, whose rage burns at my back.
“Now, what can I help you with, Mr. Nevarez?” she asks.
I drop the bank statement onto her desk. Her fingers twitch as she reaches for it. Her eyes flick down for half a second before she looks up at me.
“And what do you propose I do with this?” she asks, voice steady.
“I want answers,” I demand. “Now.”
“Don’t you say a fucking word, Salma!” Alfredo yells. Adrian backhands him with the pistol.
Salma looks at her husband then back at me and nods. She lets out a small yawn, accompanied with a “Padre Santo” before she leans back in her chair.
“Where do I begin? Let’s see, you know Missy is the reason I became a therapist?” she asks, a smile curving on her face. “I loved her, but she was broken. I started studying grief and trauma after?—”
“Skip the origin story,” I snap. “What are you doing with Alma?”
“Salma!” Alfredo growls the warning, and Adrian cocks the gun back.
Salma’s smile thins. “Fine. I met Missy while I was working at La Cuevita. She told me about Curtis Anderson—how obsessed he was. He moved her into some hiding place on his family’s property. From what I remember, everything was fine until she got pregnant.”
Alfredo lunges. “You fucking bitch?—”
“Oh fuck you, Alfredo,” Salma snaps, her eyes going hard as she stares at him. “You don’t think I don’t know about you fucking the nanny these last three months. Go to hell!”
