Page 17 of Jessica, Not Her Real Name
“Tomorrow night,” he clarified.
She narrowed her eyes at him, trying to work out if she was understanding him correctly. "Are you asking me out on a date?"
Daniel shrugged. "Maybe. Guess you'll have to come and find out."
Her rational mind jumped in first, fast and firm, running through a checklist of reasons to say no. She had practice in the morning. She shouldn’t be out late. And after what had happened with Floyd she definitely shouldn’t be getting into cars with strange men, no matter how charming their smile or soft their voice.
Her fingers curled around the necklace in her palm, knuckles tight. She could feel her heartbeat in her throat.
But then there was the other part of her. The restless part. The part that hated the silence in that big, echoing house. The part that couldn’t stand another evening with her mother’s polite concern and veiled disappointment. The part that had always ached for something else, something bigger than routines and early mornings and chasing a dream that felt more like someone else’s idea of success
And it was that part of her—the one that still hadn’t learned, maybe—that opened her mouth and said, “Okay.”
* * *
Daniel turned the key in the ignition, yanked the gearshift into drive and peeled away from the curb, tires spitting dust as he hit the gas harder than he needed to.
His pulse hammered. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel.
One fucking job.
All he had to do was put the fear of God into her. Make sure she kept her mouth shut. Make sure she understood that talking—even thinkingabout talking—wasn’t an option.
Instead, what had he done?
Asked her out.
Like some lovesick idiot.
He exhaled sharply, bracing his forearms on the wheel, shaking his head at himself. He should’ve walked away the second he’d seen her, left her standing there with her wide, unblinking eyes and that trembling little breath she’d taken when she realized who he was.
But no. Instead of fear, he’d seen something else in those baby blues.
Curiosity.
And worse, something dangerous. Something warm.
He should have shut it down. Instead, the words had slipped out before he even thought about what they meant. Before he considered the consequences.
And there would be consequences.
A rustling sound came from the backseat. Then warm, damp breath panted against his neck.
Daniel cut his eyes to the rearview mirror. Tequila was sitting up, her big tongue hanging sideways, her tail thumping once against the seat.
He sighed. “This is all your fault.”
She blinked at him. Then drooled on his shoulder in silent agreement.
* * *
DEA Special Agent Belinda Weck folded her arms and leaned back against the long trestle table, exhaling through her nose. The overhead fluorescents buzzed softly, casting a sterile glow over the war room.
The whiteboard in front of her was a collage of horror—crime scene photos arranged without any regard to anatomical order. Some of the remains were still half-wrapped in black plastic bin liners, others were unrecognizable as human at all. Whoever had taped them up hadn’t bothered trying to piece them together. No point.
Belinda’s expression tightened, but not from squeamishness. She’d spent years in the DEA’s satellite field office in Ciudad Juárez during the late ’90s, when the gang bloodshed was at its worst. She knew what the drug trade did to people. She’d seen its consequences stacked in morgues, buried in mass graves, hung from bridges.
But there was something about seeing a person reduced to so many chunks that still got to her.
