"Why were you watching her?"
Mauro stops the gurney. Skinny howls in pain. The melting plastic of his shoes is blistering the soles of his feet. The pads of his toes. He nods frantically. "I just—I watch, I report, that's all, man, I don't?—"
"Who is she?"
"I don't know!" he cries. "I swear, I don't know, they don't tell me that kind of shit, I just get paid to track her, that's it!"
Interesting. Very interesting. I glance at Mauro again, who is already on the phone, probably texting Kale to see if he can get any info on the woman and the kid. Both of us realize that if she's being watched, she matters. To Manuel. Or to whoever Manuel answers to. Which means, she's a lead. A real one.
I turn back to Skinny, crouching in front of him again. His face is distorted in agony. "Where else does she go?"
"She lives right by the coffee shop," he chokes. "Same building—she goes there, man, regularly, with the kid, I swear, that's all I know?—"
The kid. The words tighten my chest. Unwelcome. Irrelevant. I push it aside.
"Times," I press. "When does she show up?"
"Morning. Every morning. Like she's waiting for something."
We'll find her. In the meantime. I slowly rise, pet his cheeks for good measure. "Good, now tell me about Manuel. Who doeshework for?"
Skinny freezes. Not the panicked kind. Theotherkind. The kind where the body knows it's about to die, no matter what is said next. His eyes dart to the door. To Mauro. To the Oven.
Nowhere to go.
"No…" he whispers, shaking his head. "No, man, I can't?—"
I tilt my head slightly. "Can't?"
The word is soft. Curious, with a smidge of fake disappointment. "You've been doing so well."
I straighten, nod once. The machine hums again. Louder this time. Closer. The heat rises, swallowing the soles of his shoes. He screams. It's a high, broken, animal sound.
"I'll tell you!" he chokes. "I'll tell you, just—just stop?—"
I lift a hand. The machine stops, reverses. Silence drops heavy into the room, broken only by his ragged sobbing.
"Go on," I say.
He sucks in a shuddering breath. "…Manuel works forhim."
The last word is but a whisper.
"For whom?"
His lips tremble. Like even saying the name might summon him. "El… El Recaudador."
The name settles into the room like a curse. I've already suspected as much. I just don't know if El Recaudador hadanything to do with my sister's death or is just using it to get to me.
Skinny trembles all over, not just from pain. There is fear. Fear greater than that of the Oven. Of burning alive. And that… that gets my attention. Because what kind of man can instill that kind of fear?
Skinny's lips part, but nothing comes out at first. Nothing but a broken, wheezing breath. His eyes dart around like he expects the man himself to step out of the shadows.
"I—I can't?—"
"You can."
He lets out another strangled sob. "He doesn't just—he doesn't just kill people, man," he chokes. "He—he plays with them. With their heads. With their families?—"
