“Sores, I think. Some were old and healed. Others were fresh.”
Now we’re getting somewhere. “Did you get a look at the ring?”
“Not a very good one.” She bites her lip. “I won’t be able to describe it in detail.”
I caress the line of her jaw with my thumb. “Try.”
“Why do want to know, Dante?”
“Try,” I coax, tracing the bumpy edges of the mark again, burning its shape into my very soul.
“It was square and gold with a red stone in the middle and something engraved on it.”
That doesn’t sound like a ring that belongs to any of my bounty hunters. “Where did it happen?”
“Colorado.” Long, golden lashes hide her expression when she averts her eyes. “Three years ago.”
“Why?”
Her gaze snaps back to mine. “You know what I was doing there.”
“Why was he after you?”
“The same reason they all were.”
She says that so casually, so callously, as if the words don’t carry any weight.
I press my thumb on that mark, wishing I could wipe it away. “I didn’t send him.”
She grips the basin behind her, supporting her weight on her arms as she looks me dead in the eye. “Someone did.”
Water splashes in the bath. The sounds of Noah’s playing reaching my ears. And we’re out of time.
I jut my chin at her face, motioning at where I’m caressing her skin. “How?”
“Mommy?” Noah calls. “I’m getting wrinkly skin.”
I keep my tone friendly and reassuring, as if Tatiana and I are just having a meaningless conversation about the weather and not an exchange that eats like acid into my gut. “In a moment, buddy.”
“I…”
She starts to shake her head again, but I warn her with a look.
She glances toward the bath, making sure to keep her voice down. “He broke into our motel room. It was early. I was getting dressed when I heard someone picking the lock. I put Noah in the bathroom and locked the door. When the man charged into the room, I shot him in the arm.” Her lip curls. “It would’ve been in his heart if he wasn’t so quick. He kicked the gun out of my hand, but I managed to cut him with the switchblade I always carried in my pocket. That’s when he hit me. His ring must’ve caught my cheekbone. All I knew was that later, when I cleaned the wound, the skin was split.”
I push down the violence that demands an outlet. My voice is deadly calm, giving no indication of what’s going on inside me. “What happened then?”
“Someone heard the gunshot and called the police. The cleaning lady came to my aid and hit him over the head with a fire extinguisher.”
“Mommy?”
“Coming, Noah,” I call. “Go on, Tatiana.”
She continues in a whisper. “When the cleaning lady showed up, the sirens were already audible in the distance. My attacker ran away. I thought I was going to black out. The woman wanted to call an ambulance. I told her I couldn’t go to the police. I fed her the same story I gave everyone, that I was running with my child from an abusive husband, and that the police would arrest me for kidnapping my child. She was sympathetic, saying she also knew abusive men, so she lent me her car, and that’s how Noah and I got away. I left it for her at a gas station we agreed upon with a little money in the glove compartment to thank her for her help.”
I stare at that mark, imagining the wound when it was red and puffy, caked with dried blood, and going purple around the edges. “How long did it take to heal?”
She gives me a strange look. “What does that have to do with anything?”
