"And you." She cups my cheek with shaking fingers. "My poor baby." Her voice softens. "How are you holding up?"
I force a small nod. "I'm okay, Mom."
The words come out automatically. A habit I formed over the years.I'm fine. I'm okay.Because that's what people want to hear. Something easy. Something they can nod at and move past. No one wants the truth. Not really. Not the messy, complicated parts. Not the unfairness. Not the things that linger. So I give them what they want.I'm fine.
Annette once said,"Honestly, I don't know how you deal with your mother and still stay so upbeat. If she were mine, she'd be in her own apartment."
I've been strong for Mom for as long as I can remember. Now I feel tired. I don't want to be the strong one right now. I want to be the one in her arms. But instead, I sit beside her on the couch, holding her hand while she cries for the man we both just lost. Ialways knew she loved Pete like a son. Probably more than me. Mom's hierarchy has always been pretty clear:
First: her.
Second: the cats.
Third: Pete.
Fourth: her sister.
And somewhere after that—if nothing urgent comes up, like a lost cat flyer—there's me.
I glance up. Gabe is standing across the room. There's a massive opening in the wall; doorway isn't really the word. It's like an entire section of the wall is just… missing. An architectural choice. He's leaning against the frame of that space, arms crossed over his chest. Watching us. His expression is unreadable.
"Oh, honey," Mom murmurs suddenly. Her fingers brush gently against my swollen lip. "You were hurt."
Every now and then—like right now—I see a glimpse of the mother she's supposed to be. Soft. Protective. Present. But the moment passes quickly.
"We need to go home." She straightens suddenly. "I need to feed my cats."
"I'm sorry," Gabe enters the conversation calmly from across the room, stepping forward. "That won't be possible right now."
Mom stiffens slightly. I look at him.
"Whoever killed your son-in-law might still be out there," he continues.
"All the more reason to talk to the police," I insist.
He shakes his head slowly. "You don't want to do that, Audra."
"I don't?" I raise an eyebrow at him.
He studies me for a second. Then something in his expression changes. His posture shifts. His voice, too. When he speaks again, it's different. Harder. Official.
"Mrs. Hale," he says flatly. My stomach tightens. "We're just trying to understand what happened."
The tone is so accurate it's unsettling. He sounds just like one of those policemen on TV. "At first, you said you and your husband were kidnapped." His eyes flick to me. "By armed men,cartel members, in your words."
He looks questioningly at me, and I nod, unsure what he expects me to do or say.
"Those are some serious allegations."
Mom squeezes my arm nervously. Gabe continues. "But then we arrive at the scene, and what do we find?" He tilts his head slightly. "Multiple dead men." He pauses. "Your husband among them." Another beat. "And you." His gaze sharpens. "Alive."
Mom shifts closer to me. Gabe leans forward slightly, his voice dropping.
"So help me understand something, Mrs. Hale. If these men were planning to kill everyone in that warehouse…" He spreads his hands. "How come you're the only one who walked out alive?"
My heart starts pounding. He keeps going. "And then there's the shootout."
He gestures vaguely, like describing a crime scene. "Guns everywhere. Bodies everywhere." His eyes lock on mine. "You were holding a gun when the officers arrived."
