Page 20 of Scarred Souls

“Sounds like bad-guy code for If I tell you, I’ll have to kill you.”

“You’re laying it on a little thick, aren’t you?” Although I had wondered about his evasive answer at the time.

She blew across the steaming surface of her cocoa. “He’s hiding something.”

“Aren’t we all?”

7

VAUGHN

After picking the lock on the restaurant and cleaning up the mess, I’d driven back out of town toward Hope’s house and parked across the road from her driveway. There, my truck remained partially hidden behind shrubs and a grove of palms.

I supposed I had to sleep in my car somewhere, and this spot allowed me to keep an eye on Hope’s place in case those cartel asshats made the unfortunate life-limiting decision to track her down. I didn’t think they would tonight, but that was the excuse I was going with. Why else would I position myself so close to a woman I’d just met like some kind of stalker?

I dropped the seat back and closed my eyes, settling in for an uncomfortable night’s sleep. Tomorrow, I’d start investigating the local fishermen. If the cartel was sniffing around, maybe some of the Playa de la Palmera villagers were already involved in offshore collections.

I’d probably end up at Javi’s for dinner. There was no better place to hear gossip than the local restaurant. It definitely wasn’t so I could check up on a certain sassy little brunette.

Again, I racked my brain for why she looked so damn familiar. A memory teased at the fringes of my mind. A woman dressed in expensive-looking clothes and big sunglasses, crossing a busy city road while flanked by two bodyguards. She didn’t have facial scars, and her hair was cut in a sharp platinum-blond bob, but dammit, the face I kept seeing was Hope’s.

Wait.

I sat bolt upright and clutched the windowsill when a disturbing thought slammed into me like a freight train. The vision in my head wasn’t an actual memory, at least not one where I’d been present. It was from a photo I’d seen in one of Brandon’s case files.

Holy fuck.

No way. It couldn’t be her. It wasn’t even possible.

I fumbled my phone from the dash and dialed Brandon’s number.

He answered on the second ring. “If you’ve killed someone already, I’m going to be very disappointed in you.” He didn’t even sound tired, which meant he was probably at his computer, working late like always.

“They’re not dead. They just have less blood than before they met me.”

“That’s hardly reassuring.”

“Never mind about them. That’s not why I called.”

There was a sound like a chair creaking. “What is it? You sound flustered.”

He was right, and I never got flustered.

“I need you to tell me if I’m losing my mind. I’m going to send you something.” I messaged Brandon the photo I’d snapped of Hope’s driver’s license, which I now assumed was a fake.

His phone chimed. “She looks a little familiar. Who’s Hope Garcia Lopez?”

“You tell me.” I scraped a hand over my face. “Look at her, man. Who does she look like?”

Silence. The scars and long dark hair must be throwing him off. That and one other undeniable fact.

“I’ll give you two hints,” I said. “Her father is the biggest piece of shit to ever walk the earth, and she’s a potential heir to the Pacific Coast Cartel.”

“Then you are losing your mind, because Elena Espinoza is dead. The Alvarez Cartel killed her three years ago.”

“Uh-huh. I know that. But unless I was staring at a ghost a few hours ago, I’d say she’s very much alive.” Restless, I stepped out of the truck. “Take another look at the Espinoza family file.”

That was where I’d seen her photo a year ago, although I’d only glanced at it fleetingly. There’d been no need to commit Elena Espinoza’s face to memory since she was dead. I chose to ignore how her striking features had lingered in the depths of my mind since then.

---