Chapter 15
DIEGO
Any update?
The cops are trying to interview her now but she's not fully responsive. Will keep you updated. You did good.
I stare at that last part longer than I mean to.
Did she at least say her name?
A pause. Then:
I think she said Harvee? It's sweet of you to check on her, son. How's your mom this morning?
Still sleeping. About to head out. Have a good day, Linda.
You too, hun. God bless you.
I pocket the phone and lace up.
Linda means well. She always has. But God hasn't done much for us lately that I can see.
Ma prays every morning and every night and the pain is still there when she wakes up, still there when she tries to sleep.
I don't know what kind of arrangement that's supposed to be.
I'm not going to work it out on a Saturday morning, so I leave it alone and head for the door.
Harvee.
I turn the name over once and put it away. I wanted a name to satisfy something. I'm not sure it did.
My running route isn't fixed anymore. It depends on him.
Most mornings it's the commercial complex, a few loops through the courtyard, in and out like any other guy logging miles before the heat sets in.
Other mornings it's his neighborhood. I learned the gate code two weeks ago just by watching a neighbor punch it in, and since then I've mapped the entire community on foot.
Three cameras. One at the entrance, one at the exit, one near the mailboxes.
That's it. Sloppy security for a place this expensive.
Easy to avoid. Easy to work around when the time comes.
I keep my head down and run. The familiar burn settles in. I try to stay in the work.
She keeps surfacing anyway. The curl of blonde hair over her shoulder. Those muted green eyes finding mine across the bar, already going glassy, her body registering something wrong before her mind caught up. The weight of her in my arms outside the motel.
I drag a hand down my face and push the pace.
Today's route is his neighborhood. I parked a few houses from the entrance, close enough to move fast, far enough that no one registers the truck.
If a camera catches me running through here regularly, that's fine.
Better than fine. Routine makes people invisible.
A man who runs the same streets every morning is furniture. Nobody looks at furniture.
Everything about this is strategic.
Still. Harvee.
I don't know what I'm going to do about that. But I know the job comes first. And I know the job ends tonight.
By the time I finish, the wind has died and the neighborhood is perfectly quiet.
I take that as confirmation.
It's past two in the morning when I pull into Raul's driveway and dial his number.
"It's done," I say when he picks up.
A long pause, the sound of him coming fully awake. "Yeah? Tell me more."
"Come outside."
The trailer door creaks open a minute later and he stumbles out shirtless, squinting against the dark, climbing into the passenger seat and pulling the door shut.
"How'd you do it?" he asks.
I lean back against the headrest. "Fentanyl in his vodka."
Raul goes still for a half second. Then he starts laughing, the kind that builds before it releases. He claps once, sharp.
"Genius. That is genuinely beautiful." He shakes his head slowly, grinning at the windshield. "Death by overdose. After defending the company that overdosed his client's daughter." He lets out a low whistle. "That's not just a hit, man. That's a statement."
I watch him. I'm bone tired.
"When do we get paid?"
"I'll message in the morning. Let him know it's handled." He's already reaching for his phone, still grinning. "Seriously though. Nice work, cuz."
"Get out of my truck."
He laughs and pushes the door open. "Say less. Night, killer."
The door creaks shut. His silhouette crosses toward the trailer and disappears inside.
Just like that, it's over.
I'm in bed twenty minutes later, staring at the ceiling, and the guilt arrives the way it always does. Not during. Never during. Only after, when everything goes quiet and there's nothing left to focus on.
He never saw me.
The living room was dim, music too loud, the place smelling like liquor and smoke.
He was already deep into the bottle when I came through, a line of coke on the coffee table, vodka beside it, the particular chaos of a man alone with his habits on a Saturday night.
He went to the kitchen for a chaser and I had maybe fifteen seconds.
Bottle. Cap. Powder. Back in place exactly where it was.
By the time anyone finds him it'll read exactly the way it should. Another wealthy attorney, another late night, another accidental overdose. Miami PD won't look twice. There's nothing to look twice at.
Still. The house felt empty in a way that sat with me. Too many expensive things and no one to share them with, which is a specific kind of loneliness I recognized without wanting to.
I almost felt something like pity. Almost.
But his pain had a ceiling. The people who hired me have been living under something that doesn't.
Ma goes to church in a few hours. I'll sit beside her. Light a candle. Let the quiet of the place do whatever it does.
I close my eyes and try to find sleep.
She's the last thing I land on before I do. Blonde hair. Sage green eyes. The sound of my own name in a voice I've never heard say it.
Harvee.
I make a mental note to swing past the firm Monday morning. Just to confirm she made it back okay.
Just that. Nothing more.
I almost believe it.