Emilio.
Four hours my ass. He must have been driving ninety the whole way.
I check the peephole. It's him. Soaked, hair plastered to his forehead, leather jacket dark with rain, holding a takeout bag and a six-pack of beer like he's arriving at a party instead of a safe house.
I open the door. He pushes past me, drops the food on the table, looks around the room, and spots Charlotte standing by the bed in my shirt with wet hair and a Glock she picked up off the nightstand.
He grins. The full Emilio grin. The one that takes up his entire face and makes him look like a man who has never experienced a moment of darkness in his life, which is a lie so enormous it has its own gravitational pull.
"You must be Charlotte," he says. "I'm Emilio. I've heard almost nothing about you, which from my brother means you're the most important person in his life."
"I'm holding a gun," Charlotte says.
"I can see that. Nice grip. Little high on the slide, but we'll work on it."
"Emilio," I say.
"What? I'm being friendly. Is this not friendly? I brought beer."
Charlotte looks at me. One eyebrow raised. The expression says:This is your twin? This man who walks into a safe house like it's a barbecue?
I shrug. Because yes. This is my twin. This is the man who shares my blood and my face and none of my restraint, who showed up early because he drove like a maniac in the rain, who broughtbeer and takeout to a motel room where his brother is trying to protect a witness and his brother's girlfriend is standing in his shirt with a gun she learned to hold six hours ago.
Girlfriend. The word surfaces without permission.
"Put the gun down," I tell Charlotte. "He's annoying, but he's safe."
She lowers the Glock. Doesn't put it down. Holds it at her side while she looks at Emilio with the same attention she gives everything.
"You drove here in four hours," she says.
"Three and a half. I have a flexible relationship with speed limits."
"You brought beer."
"Beer is a universal peace offering. Also, I figured my brother hasn't eaten because he gets tunnel vision when he's working a problem and forgets he has a body."
She looks at me. "He's right. You haven't eaten."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You're doing the jaw thing."
Emilio points at Charlotte. Then at me. Then back at Charlotte. "I like her."
"Sit down," I say. "Both of you."
They sit. Charlotte on the bed, the Glock on the nightstand within reach. Emilio in the vinyl chair, beer open, legs spread, taking up space the way he always does. I stand by the window because standing is where I think best.
Emilio pulls containers from the takeout bag. Burgers. Fries. Something that smells like onion rings. He hands Charlotte a container and a beer without asking if she wants either.
She takes both. Opens the beer. Takes a long drink. Looks at Emilio over the can.
"You have the same face," she says.
"Tragically, yes. Though I wear it better."
"Debatable."
