Page 41 of The Texas Murders

Back when we were dating, we used to talk this way after every altercation I got in wearing a badge. This afternoon, when I finally had a free minute, I texted my parents to let them know I was okay. I didn’t think to tell Willow. It shouldn’t have surprised me that she’d call to check on me. I’m touched by the sentiment.

I shift our conversation away from the raid—it’s not helping me to talk about it—and ask her how the new album is coming.

“Not bad,” she says. “We’ve got room for a few more tracks. Oh, thanks for sending those lyrics, by the way. They were wonderful.”

I’d forgotten all about texting her the lyrics. The fight with Randy had happened right after, and then the raid.

We share a laugh together about the “Texas Forever” song.

“Any chance you’ll use it on the album?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” she says. “My producer isn’t convinced. He says it’s too regional and won’t appeal to fans outside of Texas.”

“Hmmm,” I say. “Imagine if Lynyrd Skynyrd’s producer said the same thing about ‘Sweet Home Alabama.’”

“No kidding,” Willow says. “I’ll tell him that tomorrow. The band and I are going to play around with the song then. I’ll try out the new lyrics.”

“If there’s anything I sang that you want to use, you’re more than welcome to.”

“You looking to get some songwriting royalties to supplement your income?” she says in a playful tone.

“Never crossed my mind,” I say. “No need to credit me with anything. It’s your song. I was just trying to help.”

“I appreciate it,” she says. “We’ll see what happens.”

As I talk, I hear a beeping. I pull the phone away from my ear and see I have an incoming call from Megan. Not wanting to interrupt Willow as she talks about the album, I let it go to voicemail.

Willow and I talk for another few minutes, and then I let her go. It’s almost midnight in El Paso and even later in Nashville. We used to end our conversations by telling each other “I love you,” and it feels weird not to say it.

After I hang up, I call Megan back, but the call goes straight to voicemail. I don’t bother to leave a message. Apparently her break is over.

When I go back in the room, Carlos has dozed off on his bed. I turn off the TV and shut off the lights. Lying in the darkness, I try to think about Megan or Willow—anything but what happened today. But it doesn’t work. My mind keeps veering to the men I shot, the agent in the hospital tonight fighting for his life, and—most of all—Marta Rivera and what might be happening to her right now because I couldn’t stop Llewellyn Carpenter.

It’s a long time before I’m able to drift off to sleep.

CHAPTER 34

THE NEXT MORNING, I’m up bright and early, drinking a tall glass of water and taking an Aleve for my headache. Carlos got up even earlier and went for a quick run, back in plenty of time for us to get ready and head over to Ysleta del Sur.

Ava is in the office when we get there, and we come bearing drinks: two cups of coffee for Carlos and me, and a lemonade for Ava.

“Just took a guess you might like this over coffee,” I say.

She takes a sip.

“Good guess,” she says with a smile.

The three of us sit down to discuss how to approach Isabella Luna’s interview. We don’t want to scare her, don’t want her to feel like we’re prying open old wounds. But if there’s anything she can remember, anything at all, it might help break this case open for us.

We decide to stand in the lobby so we don’t keep her waiting once she arrives.

“I think this is her vehicle,” Ava says, as an old Ford Bronco pulls into the lot.

Out steps a young woman with beautiful dark hair, brushed straight down and parted in the middle. She wears a short-sleeved blouse and jeans, along with sandals. As she walks through the parking lot, I notice the slightest hint of a limp—as if all the injuries listed in the police report never fully healed.

Ava greets her with a hug. She introduces Carlos and me, and the young woman looks up at both of us with anxiety she can’t quite hide.

“Texas Rangers?” she says, trying to force a smile. “This must be serious.”

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