Page 33 of Saving Bonnie

I still search for any telltale signs of where the bodies may have been. As if the thorough cleaning from Mate’s crew wasn’t enough to leave the floor spotless. As if the extra pass I’ve done every day with the mop and bleach has been for naught.

“Where did you meet him?” she asks with wide-eyed interest.

“Um, here,” I answer reluctantly.

“Oh, does he work at the bridge?” It’s not too far-fetched. We have a wave of new faces come through on a regular basis as positions become available or new recruits come through.

“No. He’s in…security.” I have to keep this as close to reality as possible, or I’m going to get tangled up in a lie. The last thing I need is for her to start coming by unannounced until she runs into Tino.

Her brow furrows. “Another security guard?”

Argh.Why didn’t I think that comment might bring us to Saul? When we met, he was a guard, then he went on to become a Border Patrol agent.

I glance at the camera at the corner of the room. Well, the units aren’t exactly hidden. It should be okay to work that in. “No, Mom, he’s in private security.” I point to the corner. “He put in the system for the building.”

She cranes around, looking from one corner of the room to the next. “Oh, good.” Her relief is palpable. “You weren’t too comfortable with Saul using a gun.”

My stomach dips. Because she might still show up and see the outline at the back of Tino’s waist, I sprinkle a little more of the truth. “Well, Tino carries a gun also.”

She pulls away, ever so slightly while assessing me, her gaze going from one of my eyes to the other.

“I don’t know why guns bothered me so much.” The memory of Tino going past me, gun in hand, flashes through my mind. I blink the memory away and try for a reassuring smile but fall flat. “I-I’ve gotten better about it.”

Her hand comes to mine, giving me a little squeeze. “Your father carried a gun,” she confesses in the softest tone she’s ever used.

Every ounce of my body gives way to gravity. My arms are weighed down while I can’t tell if my head is still connected to my body.

My entire life, Mom has never wanted to share anything about my father. She’s also never dated, not that I’ve heard of. In fact, I only know she was ever with a man because I’m sitting here today.

“Mom…”

She drags in a breath. “Only he wasn’t…” She shifts her gaze, wetting her lips as my heart slams in my throat.

What? Part of me wants to grab her by the shoulders and scream for her to spit it out.

The color in her face rises. “He wasn’t one of the good guys.” She hitches a shoulder, leaning the slightest bit away.

That explains a lot. Though still a drop of water to someone walking across the desert. Should I say something? Anything? Because after years of having questions, I honestly have no idea what to say right now. This is a huge blow. She’s opened the door to my past, and I’m not sure where to start. I flip my hand, clutching at hers.

“He was shot in Nuevo Laredo.” Her voice goes flat.

The air rushes from my lungs. For a fleeting second, I had firm footing, and, just as fast, it’s gone. This is the point in the movies where a ball of fire rushes down the hallway, scorching everything in its path before pulling back.

“And you were in your car seat when it happened,” she adds with careful words.

It makes sense, the fear, wanting to scream, the sense of loss. It’s all the things I had nightmares about as a child.

My body’s shaking, though my fingers are motionless in her palm. So many times I wondered about him. Why hadn’t things worked out between them? Had they planned on having a family some day? Was it a one-time thing? Did they really know each other? Why wouldn’t anyone say anything? Even my great aunts and cousins claimed they didn’t know about him. Had she kept it a secret? Because my family loves to gossip too much forallof them to keep their mouths shut.

“Shouldn’t have done it here.”

She squeezes my fingers, and I focus on her. Pain fills her eyes. She’s been saying something, but I’ve been lost too deep in my own thoughts to catch a single word.

The phone rings, and all I can do is try to swallow past the knot in my throat.

On the third ring, she stands. “I’d better go, baby. I’m sorry.” She stops at the door. “You’ll be by tomorrow? We can talk then.”

I nod, though I’m not sure how I’m doing.

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