Page 9 of Hearts Of Darkness

Tears of relief cloud my vision as I step forward to accept her embrace, surrendering to it completely like I used to when I was a child.

“He’s going to be okay, sweetheart,” she whispers, brushing stray wisps of hair away from my face.

“I can’t believe someone tried to use him as target practice,” I mumble into her shoulder.

“I can’t believe he didn’t duck.”

Our bittersweet laughter turns to fresh tears, and we hug each other a little tighter.

“One of his colleagues called me,” she explains, wiping her eyes. “They went down to the quays to check out a suspect container and were ambushed. He took two bullets to his arm and one to his shoulder, but I’ve just spoken with his surgeon. There’s no reason to suggest he won’t be making a full recovery.”

I take a moment to digest this. “Why was he out working a case so soon after the other night? Why would he take that risk?”

“He told me something in confidence before he left, Evie…” My mother glances away. “He heard a rumor that a Santiago was right here in Miami. He was following up on a lead.”

I stare at her in shock as she pats the skin under her eyes, rubbing away the last traces of smudged mascara. Mine and dad’s inexorable quest for my brother’s justice takes a heavytoll on her sometimes.

This is big. No, it’shuge.A Santiago here on our home turf? No wonder dad was so determined to find out more.

I feel a fierce love and pride for him then. Destroying the cartels is personal to all of us. Not only was tonight a chance to take down one of the chief perpetrators, but a chance to take down one of the men responsible for Ryan’s death.

I know my dad. He’ll be devastated when he wakes up. He’ll blame himself for getting shot down when he was two-thirds to victory.

“Can we see him?”

“Of course, though he won’t be awake for a little while.”

She takes my arm and leads me along a twisted maze of hospital hallways. Now that my immediate, breath-stealing heartache has passed, I find I can endure people’s curiosity again. What greets me is a whole spectrum of human emotion—from mirror images of my own relief to the anguish of the alternative—emotions that could so easily have been ours if the bullets had struck higher.The same emotions we faced together as a family five years ago.

Mom ushers me into a private room, and I gaze down at the unconscious figure in the bed, mentally phasing out all the wires and tubes and scary, bleeping machinery. Dad looks fragile. Broken…

“That’s three lucky escapes for my family this week,” I hear my mother say, pulling up two chairs for us. “Stay safe, sweetheart. I don’t think I can take any more drama.”

I hold my breath and wait for the follow-up. Mom hates my job. She’s been like this ever since my brother died. If she had her way, I’d be a bored housewife in Suburbia with a kidattached to each hip.

“Perhaps it’s time to reconsider a few things, Evie. There are safer ways to earn a living, you know.”

Predictable.

“Mom, I’m a reporter—”

“Who writes inflammatory words about dangerous criminals!” Mom’s anger burns bright, but it fades just as quick. “It could have been men like that who attacked you the other night…”

I say nothing. She’s skirting dangerously close to the same conclusion I’ve come to myself. Even so, I refuse to walk away from my job. It’s the last piece I have left of my former life.

“Perhaps this isn’t the best time to be having this conversation,” she concedes, heading for the door. “I need to have a word with the nurses. There was talk of moving him up to a new floor.”

“Okay, Mom.”

I acknowledge her exit with a tight smile before turning back to dad.

I stare and stare.

Who did this?

Who pulled the trigger?

Was the tip-off a ruse?

---