"Amauri," I whisper.
My son's eyes are huge, terrified, too bright in the harsh cabin light. His hands are clenched in his lap like he's trying very hard not to cry. Like he's being brave because he thinks he has to be.
A sound rips out of me. I don't recognize it as my own.
Dad's phone rings again, this time with an incoming call. When he answers, a heavily accented voice announces, "You know the drill."
Then the other party hangs up.
Drill? I stare at my dad, my vision tunneling.
"What drill?" I choke. "What are they talking about? What do they want?"
"I need to think." He turns away again, pacing now, keeping his voice low, controlled. I know that voice. It's his threat assessment tone. The one he uses when the threat is not directed at him and he thinks it will be useful. My heart starts pounding so hard it feels like it might tear free.
"Dad," I call. "Dad."
He doesn't answer. I step into his path, grabbing his arm despite the pain shooting up my side. My fingers dig into his sleeve like it's the only solid thing left in the world.
"You know who took them," I accuse. It isn't a question anymore. "You know."
He looks down at my hand like it's an inconvenience, something interrupting his train of thought. Then he looks at my face. He doesn't deny it. He cups my cheeks suddenly, firm hands on both sides of my face, forcing me to look at him.
"Jenna," he says. "Jenna. I need you to be reasonable right now."
Reasonable.
"Can you do that for Daddy?"
My legs give out. I don't remember deciding to sit, but the couch catches me as my knees buckle. The room tilts again, slower this time, like the world is sinking instead of spinning. He presses a glass into my hands. Scotch. Again. My fingers barely close around it when another thin cactus spine seems to push further in, invisible but impossible to ignore.
I shake my head. "Amauri?—"
"Drink," he pushes gently. "You need it."
I don't argue. I swallow. It burns all the way down, and still, it doesn't touch the cold spreading through my chest.
"The Cartels," the way he says it sounds as if he's discussing zoning permits. "They weren't pleased with my latest proposal."
The words take a second to register. My mind scrambles, searching through half-heard conversations and headlines and dinners where I sat quietly while he talked shop.
"Your… proposal," I whisper.
"The one about the drugs," he explains, a hint of impatience mingles in his tone. His gaze is chiding,you should know that, it says. "Cocaine. Distribution. Penalties. Enforcement."
Images collide in my head. The bill earlier this year. The one he'd championed so proudly. The one that shut down trafficking pipelines nationwide. The applause. The interviews. The praise.
And then the next step.
He was going to try it out in Nevada first this time. Statewide. It was supposed to be a model. Because the drug money doesn't stop at cartels. It goes up. Into campaigns. Into committees. The police. If he cleans up Nevada, he becomes untouchable. A hero. Maybe more than that.
My stomach drops.
"They took my family," the words taste like blood, "to use them as leverage against you."
He nods gravely. "Yes."
The room goes very quiet.
