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“Clint.”
“Stop saying my name.”
“Cl—shit, sorry. Dude, I’m not saying don’t do it.”
“Sounds like you’re about to.”
“I’m saying showing up at a contested property in another country because your accident lawyer sorta-cousin said a dumb sentence is not a smart move.”
As dumb as he is, he’s probably right. But even a stupid move is better than none at all.
“I won’t absolutely do it. I just… need a direction to look right now.”
The word feels strange in my mouth.
Kev sighs. Not dismissive this time. Tired.
“Take the ten,” he says. “Let me review everything first. I’ll check on the viability of you visiting the Mexico house. But, really, it’s probably not good.”
I stop pacing and look up at the ceiling tiles above the bed. There’s one shaped like a crooked star. It’s been there since I was fourteen. I used to imagine it was a map to someplace else.
“I’ll take the ten.”
“Minus my pay.”
I sigh. “Fine.”
“Wow,” Kev says. “This is the most productive conversation we’ve ever had.”
“Don’t ruin the moment.”
I sit back down on the bed.
The decision is not a relief. It isn’t triumph. Just a door cracking open in a room with no windows.
Kev says something about paperwork, timing, signatures. I only catch half. My mind has already moved on.
Puerto Vallarta.
A place Renny left behind that maybe nobody can keep me from entering.
“Hey, Kev. How hard is it to get a passport?”
Chapter fifteen
Arrival
Clint
The first thing Puerto Vallarta gives me isn’t ocean or sunshine, but a long, curling line under criminally bright lights.
I’m sweating through my T-shirt, passport in one hand and my phone in the other, trying not to look like a guy who’s made a terrible mistake.
A woman ahead of me speaks Spanish into her phone so fast it might as well be a magic trick. A couple behind me argues quietly in English about whether they should have checked a bag.
I look down at my passport, still new enough that it feels fake. I hate the photo—it looks like a mugshot—but I love that I have it.
I have a passport.
