Fernanda should have known, when she booked a bus back to the US, that the fare was too cheap. She had climbed aboard to discover a coach full of surprisingly good-looking young people heading north, passports in hand, only to watch in dread as they took a sudden detour into the desert. The fat driver and his wife up front had pulled a black curtain over the plastic partition, like an executioner draping a handkerchief over the face of a convict bracing for the axe.
The girl in the seat next to Fernanda started to weep. Fernanda said, “Have you heard the story about the cat that talked to the ocean?”
A reflex, really. But somehow, it always worked.
The rest was a blur. The bus stopped near the Rio. A pontoon bridge was already set up, waiting for them. Several men and dark SUVs waited on the other side. When the passengers saw the words on the sides of the SUVs, they were foolish enough to think, for a while, that they were safe.
Fernanda had no such illusions. When their hands were zip-tied and their documents seized, she held her head down and kept walking. Already, one thought and one thought alone dominated her mind.
She was going back to her brother. Some way. Somehow.
And then the tallest of the men at the border, the one who was clearly in charge, hooked a finger under her chin and lifted her head to study her eyes. “I’ll take this one,” he said. Like she was a dog at the market.
The name on his shirt readO’SHEA.
It didn’t bear repeating what Frank had wanted from her. What he’d done to her when he’d taken her back to his massive home and his massive bed. What mattered was what came after. That first night, Frank O’Shea had dozed off on top of Fernanda, only to awaken a few moments later with a scream in the small hours. He shook with fear. He didn’t know where he was. WhoFernandawas. Before he could collect himself, Frank whispered, “Mother?”
Fernanda knew an opportunity when she saw one. She forced down a wave of nausea and gently guided his head back down to her chest. “Have you heard the story of the wolf that met the falling star?”
It was absurd, it was humiliating, but it had calmed him down. The next day, he said, almost a little sheepish, “That’s the best I’ve slept in years.”
Frank didn’t release her back to Mexico, of course. But he didn’t sell her down the river either.
Here, in the Brake Inn Motel, the motel’s generator stuttered yet again. Outside, the toe-curlingSHRIEKS, like something from the worst of her grandmother’s stories, came closer.
Through it all, Fernanda watched Kyla sleep. When Kyla had tackled Stanley Holiday back in the office, the big man had thrown her against the desk so hard Fernanda had feared the girl might not wake up. Probably no danger of that. Kyla seemed to be breathing steadily, deep in slumber, but her dreams had clearly troubled her. Her mouth twitched and scowled, twisted with fear.
Another of those deafening moans echoed over the motel, and this time Fernanda realized something terribly sad. There was a pain in the sound, an obvious agony, and it sent a bubble of tears swelling in Fernanda’s throat. In a way that was hard to explain, the sound from the mountain made Fernanda think of nothing so much as the wail of her brother in free fall.
And then, when the sound faded again, Fernanda looked down.
Kyla’s eyes were open.
The girl sat up with a gasp, blinking in the light, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Without a word, the girl started to move. She rolled to the other side of the bed and struggled to stand.
Fernanda rushed to her. “Wait. Slow down. You hit your head. Hard.”
Kyla sank back to the bed, but just enough to gather her strength. “I’m fine. What time is it?”
Fernanda looked at their alarm clock. “Just past eleven fifty, but I believe that clock is fast.”
“It’s not. Shit.”
Kyla rose again, pushing past Fernanda. She grabbed her jacket from where Fernanda had draped it on the other bed, grabbed Lance’s gun off the nightstand. Kyla wobbled with every step. She shook her head, popped her jaw. She didn’t stop moving. She unlocked their door. She went out into the cold, Fernanda on her heels.
The wind was picking up. Fernanda had to shout over the noise. “Where are you going?”
“There’s no time. He’ll be here any minute.”
RYAN
“Someone’s fucking with us,” Ryan said. “They have been from the start.”
It was a little while earlier. He was in room 9, pacing, while Ethan sat in the corner chair and rubbed his forehead. The boy’s migraine was clearly murdering him, but at least he was listening.
Ryan said, “Do you remember earlier in the office, the way Fernanda mentioned she heard a man speaking to Sarah in room four at seven thirty tonight?”
Ethan nodded.
