“Ros, I said no thanks on the drink,” I say once I look up and notice she’s grabbed two cups.
She drops the one in her left hand and then releases a laugh. “My bad. I forgot. Guess I assumed you’d be thirsty. I have that orange soda you like.”
I add my laugh to hers. “You mean the off brand one we used to always order at that diner around the corner?”
“With the cheeseburger and fries and then skip out on the bill?”
“We paid… sometimes,” I say guiltily.
“Whenwe had it.”
Rosita’s busy scooping up the cup she dropped and pouring herself some of the soda. I take my time looking around the apartment some more.
Not much else has changed.
The TV is still an analog from 1998, weighing about fifty pounds and fuzzing in and out of reception. She still has hergrandma’s old china cabinet that’s now filled up with endless DVDs and PlayStation game cases. All of them belonging to Lucero, her son.
My gaze roves some more until it lands on the small, child-sized puffer jacket hanging off the back of one of the chairs to her dining room table.
Both of my brows push together. “Is that Luc’s?”
“What is… oh… yeah, that’s his jacket.”
“You’ve seen him recently?” I ask, confused.
“Um, yeah. You know I’m allowed to set up meetings with the social worker.”
“I thought that wasafterthe court proceedings.”
“No… it’s, uh, anytime.”
I rise from the sofa slowly as I notice the mess Rosita’s made trying to pour herself a cup of orange soda. She’s spilled the sugary drink all over the kitchen counter and can’t even get the lid screwed back on the right way.
“Ros…” I say, frowning. “Your hands are shaking. Are you okay?”
And then it hits me.
The boy’s jacket. Her strange behavior. My racing heartbeat as if my senses were trying to warn me.
I glance at the doors leading to the bathroom and bedroom and realize they’re closed.
Rositaneverclosed her doors before. She always left them open unless…
“Rosita,” I say. “Who else is in the apartment?”
“Nobody. Why… why are you?—”
“Who the fuck is here?” I snap, rushing toward the front door.
Suddenly, Roman’s voice is in my ear. He’s yelling at me to get the hell out of there. The loud rustling noises tell me he and his men are rushing to make it to me.
But it’s too late.
As I fumble with the doorknob, another door is opening.
It’s the bedroom, and two pairs of feet step out of the room.
The first belonging to a young boy. Lucero shaking almost as much as Rosita’s been, his eyes round and misty as the eight-year-old moves like he’s controlled by marionette strings.