Page 48 of The Texas Murders

“We’re moving forward with the assumption that she’s alive as well,” Ava says.

“It’s not just an assumption,” Ruth says. “I can feel it.” When we say nothing, she adds, “I don’t know how to explain it, but I’m her mother. I know that if she was dead, I would sense it somehow.”

I’ve heard this kind of thing from family members before—grieving parents or siblings who believe in their hearts that their loved one is still out there, sometimes even after years. It’s heartbreaking to finally deliver the news that the person they believed was alive was actually long dead. But something about Ruth Martinez’s certainty makes me believe she might be right. It also fills me with fear because even though Fiona could be alive right now, she might not be when we eventually find her.

“I promise we’re going to do everything we can to bring your daughter back,” I say, and even though I shouldn’t, I add, “Alive.”

CHAPTER 40

AT MIDAFTERNOON OF our second day in Flagstaff, Ava and I go out to a late lunch to discuss what more we need to do in Arizona. Our work feels pretty much done here, and so our discussion focuses on whether we should leave for Texas tomorrow morning or get a few hours of driving in today.

We’re at a pizza place called Oregano’s, and I text Carlos with a photo of the thick deep-dish pie we’re about to eat.

Jealous?I ask.

A minute later, I get a text back. It says,Are you?and includes a photo of my guitar.

I laugh. I can’t help myself.

I left my guitar in my truck when I loaned it to Carlos. I guess I was wrong when I said I never leave home without it.

I’m short on gas money, Carlos texts.I’m going to hit up a pawnshop before I drive back. You think I can get $20 for this?

Ha ha, I text back.Very funny.

As we devour the pizza, I take a moment to reflect on the relationships I’ve formed with Carlos and Ava. A lot of times Rangers work alone, so it’s been nice to have not one but two great partners on this case.

Carlos and I work well together. We didn’t say a word during the whole gunfight, but we worked successfully and in tandem the entire time.

It’s been a little harder to get to know Ava, as a police officer and a person. But beneath her steely exterior, I’ve seen her conduct interviews, review case files, and carry herself with the professionalism and poise of a sensitive woman who genuinely wants to help people. I’m glad my positive first impression when I met her at the shooting competition proved accurate—and that I’ve shaken her questionable first impression of me, so she and I could develop this working relationship.

And friendship.

The relationships with Carlos and Ava have made this assignment with the FBI’s task force a gratifying experience. Which wouldn’t have been the case otherwise, especially considering the strained relationship I now have with Ryan, who was my rival at the shooting competition but, as far as I’m concerned, never needed to be my rival on the job.

As I finish off my last piece of pizza, my phone buzzes, and I see that—speak of the devil—it’s a call from Ryan.

“Hey, Yates,” he says in the kind of friendly tone he used at the competition. “Where are you right now?”

“Flagstaff,” I say. For a moment, I’m expecting him to scoldme for being here, and I open my mouth to explain what we’re doing and what we’ve discovered.

But he isn’t calling to fight.

“How fast can you get to Phoenix?” he says.

“About two hours, I think.”

“Excellent,” he says. “I need a favor.”

He explains that the police have found a Honda Civic abandoned in Phoenix that matches the description of the vehicle they believe Llewellyn Carpenter used after abandoning his van in the garage. Security footage from the garage showed Carpenter throw Marta Rivera in the trunk and take off, only about thirty seconds before Carlos and I got there.

“I’d send someone else from the task force,” he says, “but it’s a six-hour drive from El Paso. I could put someone on a plane, or go myself, but that’s a lot of expense if it’s the wrong vehicle. Since you’re in the neighborhood, could you help me out?”

“Glad to,” I say, then, knowing there’s bad blood between them, I add, “Ava Cruz from the Tigua Tribal Police is with me.”

Across from me, Ava takes a sip from her lemonade while watching me closely, trying to figure out what we’re talking about.

“No problem,” he says, surprising me. “Take her with you. I just need you to make an initial assessment. If it looks like our guy’s vehicle, I’ll probably come up myself.”

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