Page 17 of The Texas Murders

Neither of us says it aloud, but we’re both thinking it.

I told Megan that I was over Willow, but I wonder if I am.

If I’ll ever be.

My phone buzzes in my back pocket, saving me from the awkward silence. Willow hands me the towel she’s using, and I dry my hands. I check the phone and see the call is from Carlos Castillo. I’ve been expecting an update, but not this late. It’s almost midnight.

“Are you serious about wanting to help with these cases of missing Indian women?” Carlos says.

“Yes.”

“Come pick me up,” he says. “We’re heading west.”

He explains that a Native woman from El Paso has gone missing. She doesn’t—or didn’t—live on a reservation, which means the Rangers can get involved with less red tape.

“It’s still going to be a jurisdictional pissing match with the local cops and the feds,” he says, “but if you want to get involved, this is probably the way to do it.”

I tell him I’ll be there as soon as I can.

“You sure you want to?” Carlos says. “I know tonight was your ceremony. I can go alone. I don’t mind.”

I am exhausted, and if I told him to go without me, I could be in bed within fifteen minutes, sound asleep. Or “sleeping” with Willow. I do the math in my head about how much driving Carlos and I would have ahead of us: almost two hours to Austin to pick him up and another eight or nine hours to El Paso from there. We won’t get to the crime scene until at least 10:00 a.m. tomorrow. I consider telling Carlos that I’m going to pass on this case. I’ll let him—or the feds—handle it. But I remember Ava Cruz’s reproachful words about the Texas Rangers.

“I’m in,” I say.

When I hang up, Willow has an expression on her face that she’s been in this situation before—watching me run off at all hours of the night. I usually like to think our relationship didn’t survive because her career took off in Nashville, but my career got in the way just as much as hers did.

“Where are you going?” she says, sounding disappointed.

“El Paso.”

Her eyes go wide.

“I’ll start a pot of coffee,” she says. “You go to your place, pack whatever you need, and stop back by before you head out. The coffee will be ready by then.”

I drive up to the house, only a couple hundred yards away, and change out of my damp pants and shirt and into clean ones. I throw together a duffel bag with a few changes of clothes, a paperback book, and my toothbrush. I’m not sure how long I’ll be gone.

When I drive back down to my parents’ house, my family is there with Willow. The rain has stopped and insects chirp from the darkness. I take the thermos of coffee and give everyone hugs. As I hold Willow in my arms, I tell her she might as well stay in my house for the night.

“It’s a little messier than when you lived there,” I say. “But you know where everything is.”

She thanks me but says it might feel too weird—too lonely—to be there without me.

I climb into my truck, put it in gear, and wave out the window to say goodbye to everyone. I drive about ten feet before putting on the brakes. I hop out of the truck and jog back into the house, past the confused faces of my family.

“Forget something?” Dad calls after me.

A few seconds later, I come out with my guitar case.

“You never know,” I say, sliding it behind the seat. “I might need this.”

CHAPTER 12

I MEET CARLOS at headquarters in Austin, where he’s sitting on the tailgate of his pickup in the dark parking lot. He takes his shotgun and LaRue rifle out of his toolbox and slides them into mine, alongside my guns and other equipment. He places his bulletproof vest in there with mine as well. Carlos also packed a duffel bag of clothes and moves to put it behind the seat inside the cab. There isn’t much room because of my bag and my guitar.

“You really need the guitar?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

I shrug. “I don’t leave home without it.”

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