Page 17 of Monstrosity
By four-thirty, I'm parked outside Riverside Elementary, watching other parents gather for pickup.
Normal people living normal lives, worried about homework and soccer practice instead of cartel bullshit.
I used to be one of them.
Before Flora, before the club became my everything, I thought the biggest problems in life were paying bills and fixing leaky faucets. Now I sit in my truck with a loaded Glock under my seat, scanning faces for threats while waiting for my eight-year-old to skip out of school.
Florencia appears in the doorway right on time, backpack bouncing as she hurries toward me.
She's got Flora's smile and my stubborn chin, and seeing her safe and happy eases some of the tension that's been coiled in my chest since last night.
"Daddy!" She climbs into the truck, already chattering about her day. "We learned about butterflies in science, and Tommy said they're just flying worms, but I told him that's stupid because worms don't have wings, and Mrs. Garcia said I was right."
"Tommy doesn't know what he's talking about," I agree, pulling into traffic. "Buckle up,mija. We're picking up Cali and then going to get Dasha."
"Are we having dinner out tonight?" There's hope in her voice.
My kids love restaurant nights, probably because it means they can order chocolate milk and argue about dessert.
"Maybe. Depends on how soccer practice goes."
Cali's daycare pickup is just as smooth, though my youngest daughter has paint in her hair and what looks like glitter stuck to her cheek.
She insists on showing me the masterpiece she created—a stick figure family with a suspiciously tall woman standing next to a man and two smaller figures.
"That's you," she explains, pointing to the tall stick figure. "And that's me and Florencia. And that's Dasha."
My throat tightens.
In Cali's five-year-old mind, Dasha is part of our family.
Has been for months, maybe longer.
The realization hits me harder than it should, followed immediately by the crushing weight of knowing I've put her in danger just by caring about her.
"It's beautiful, baby girl," I tell her, meaning it. "We'll put it on the refrigerator when we get home."
The drive to Beans & Babes takes fifteen minutes, during which the girls argue about whether butterflies or ladybugs are prettier.
Normal kid stuff that makes me feel almost human again.
Until I see the black sedan parked across from the coffee shop.
My blood turns to ice.
The car is positioned for surveillance, windows tinted dark enough to hide occupants.
Engine running, exhaust visible in the afternoon air.
They're still watching.
I park two blocks away and text Dasha:
Running a few minutes late. Are you ready to go?
Her response comes back immediately:
Just finishing up. Everything okay?
