Page 56 of Loco

But we’d already picked our side.

And Topper had no idea how close we were to blowing it all open.

Chapter 17

Sayla

When I finally closed up at Delicious Divas, I felt like I was walking on bones instead of feet. My back ached, my fingers still smelled faintly of lavender shampoo and acetone, and I’d reached that level of tiredness where everything started to feel a little floaty. The kind of tired where you don't think, you just moved on autopilot.

All I wanted was to get home—myhome.

The place was finally ready after everything with the contractors and the pipe disaster. It was clean, dry, freshly patched, and waiting for me like it had missed me. Well, if a house could miss its owner, that was, which was unlikely. I was starting to think this house hated me.

Roque showed up at the salon around closing. He’d said he missed me and just wanted to se me, and sure, part of me believed that—hoped for it even—but the rest of me, the part that paid attention to things others, didn’t. That was the part of me that’d clocked the tension in his jaw. The way his eyes keptscanning the street behind me, the corners of the salon, and the parking lot through the blinds like he was expecting something to crawl out of the shadows.

When he asked me to pull my car into the garage that night, the words came out soft, almost casual, but the undercurrent was anything but.

Something was happening, and he wasn’t ready to tell me what.

After he left, I was still sweeping up loose hairs when Evie came out from the back, already tugging her jacket on.

“He’s probably still out of whack,” she explained, tying her scarf. “Kemble’s death… it wrecked him. You know that.”

I nodded. “Yeah, I know.”

“It wasn’t just friendship with them. It was deeper, like they were two sides of something. Losing someone like that”—she shook her head— “that doesn’t go away fast.”

I thought about the funeral. I’d mainly gone for the kids to help where I could and ensure they weren’t overwhelmed. I remembered Roque standing there with them, stoic on the surface, but I’d seen it—the devastation underneath buried deep.

He hadn’t cried, he’d just kept them close and held it together, putting their comfort and grief above his own.

He was still breaking. Quietly. In the kind of way that could go unnoticed for far too long.

I locked the door behind Evie and stood momentarily staring out into the dim street. Something wasn’t right, and Roque was trying to carry it all alone. He might not be ready to tell me what it was, but I’d be ready when he did.

The sky was that hazy, steel-blue color that made it feel later than it was as I pulled out of the lot. I was halfway home when I remembered I had nothing in the fridge.

After the bath-through-the-ceiling disaster, everything perishable had either gone bad or gotten tossed. And whatever I’d taken over to Roque’s during the snowstorm had probably been long devoured by now. I’d meant to restock days ago, but life—loud, chaotic, and full of unexpected visits from tired, beautiful men who couldn’t hide their worry—had gotten in the way.

So, I pulled into the grocery store, grabbing a cart with a busted wheel and a mind of its own. I picked up the milk first, then some eggs, bread, and frozen meals for the days I knew I’d be too tired to cook. Looping back, I picked up a few fruits and vegetables to make myself feel like I was trying.

By the time I reached the end of the aisles, the cart had become a confession of a woman trying to remember how to live alone again.

I stood in front of the wine shelf for a minute too long, debating between red or white before finally grabbing a bottle of rosé with a vaguely artistic label. I didn’t need it, but I’d earned it.

I loaded the groceries into the backseat and slid into the driver’s seat, feeling the fatigue settle into my bones again. But there was something comforting about the bags in the back—like the first step to getting back into my own rhythm.

The roads home were lit in a golden wash of headlights and storefront glow, busy but not chaotic. Still, for some reason, as I passed the turn for the library, I glanced up at the rearview mirror.

Nothing drew my eyes there—no sound, no motion—just instinct. And even then, I wasn’t sure what I expected to see. Headlights, obviously, plenty of them. It was the after-work rush, and everyone had the same idea: get what you need, get home, shut the door.

But something about the mirror made me stare a second too long. My hands stayed on the wheel, but my gut gave a little twist. It wasn’t panic, not yet, just that subtle shift in your chest when something you can’t quite name slides into your awareness.

I told myself it was nothing, just a long day and my brain catching Roque’s nervous energy and twisting it into shadows.

Still, I adjusted the mirror again and kept checking it.

When I turned onto my street, the groceries were sliding around in the back seat with every gentle curve. My house waited at the end, the porch light casting a soft glow across the steps. It looked peaceful and normal, like nothing bad had ever touched it—like nothing ever would.

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