1
MARA
One year ago, June
Carrera
Carrera Santini exited the beltway toward his sister’s house and called his younger cousin Theodore.
“Yo,” Teddy whispered. “I can’t talk.”
Carrera cracked a smile. “Why’d you answer?”
“I thought you might be here,” Teddy whispered.
“Are you at Mara’s?”
“Why would I be at her house?”
Carrera stopped at a red light. “To help move her furniture.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because youlikehelping family.”
“I do?” Teddy asked.
Carrera’s patience had ended. The light turned green and Carrera powered through the intersection. “Bro, where are you?”
“Outta town,” Teddy whispered.
“On a hit?”
“Dude just walked in.”
The line went dead.
Who answers the damn phone on a hit?
My idiot cousin.
Carrera pulled into Mara’s Falls Church neighborhood, a busy suburb of Northern Virginia that boasted a quick twenty-minute commute to downtown DC. His sister had asked for help moving some furniture. In exchange, she was cooking him dinner. That could go either way. Her lasagna was to die for. Same with her wok stir-fry. If she had steaks, he’d grill ‘em. Once, Mara had charred the meat into leather. Then, there was the time she served him a porterhouse that was still mooing when she set it on his plate.
Mara wasn’t just his sis, she was his business partner. Together, they owned and ran Carrera Cruises, a DC-based company that offered daily excursions along the Potomac River and on the Chesapeake Bay near Annapolis, Maryland. Working with Mara was a great fit. She was reliable, punctual, and organized.
Their vessels included party boats, several forty-foot yachts, and one specially-designed sixty-foot ship that hailed as the star of their fleet. The spacious stern had been built to accommodate special events like weddings. It could comfortably seat up to thirty guests with room for the bridal party and was booked months in advance.
He parked in front of Mara’s small townhouse. After grabbing his work gloves off the passenger seat, he exited his four-door truck, made his way to the front door.
Just after seven on a beautiful Friday evening in June, and the sun had started its graceful descent below the horizon. He rapped on her front door.
No answer. He called her.
Also, no answer.
Where the hell are you?
She’d asked him to help her weeks ago, so there was no way she’d blow him off now. He punched in the garage code and waited while the door rose. As he eyed her car, his frustration morphed into concern. He strode over to the door, tried the handle. To his surprise, it was locked.
