Chapter 5
FIVE
Daniel Castano sat on the steps of his trailer, watching as his old white Camry lurched over the rutted driveway, its shocks groaning under the abuse. The early morning air carried the scent of damp earth and gasoline.
Beside him, Tequila lifted her head, ears pricked. She got to her feet and whined, pacing anxiously.
The car came to a stop, and the door swung open.
An enormous man unfolded himself from the driver’s seat, using the doorframe for leverage.
Terry “La Arana” Bidois was built like a bulldozer—barrel-chested, thick-necked, with arms like slabs of meat.
He was nearly as wide as he was tall, and unlike most older white guys who carried that kind of bulk, his wasn’t just fat. The guy could bench-press a truck.
He tossed Daniel the keys.
Daniel caught them one-handed. “Where?”
Terry pushed his sunglasses onto his forehead, revealing the intricate spiderweb tattoo covering one side of his bald scalp. His gold teeth flashed in a grin. “Dumpsters,” he said. “Back of the Yards.”
“Dumpsters,” Daniel repeated, noting the plural.
Terry’s grin widened. “Let’s see if those crime scene guys know their assholes from their elbows.” He chuckled. “Literally.”
Daniel said nothing. Just stretched his legs out in front of him, exhaustion sinking deep into his bones. He hadn’t slept last night, and not just because his bed had been occupied. It had been a night from hell in every possible way.
Tequila had been the first to sense the intruder. By the time Daniel got inside, the bastard had his hands all over that girl, trying to pull up her dress while she sobbed. The look on her face—terror-stricken, eyes wide and glassy—was burned into his brain.
The guy was lucky Daniel hadn’t put a bullet in him right then and there. Instead, he’d knocked him out, dragged him outside, and beaten him until his fists were raw and bloody.
When his anger had finally subsided, he’d stood up and stared down at the guy. He’d still been alive. If Daniel had called an ambulance right then, the guy’d probably be alive now. Breathing through a tube, sure. But alive.
But Daniel hadn’t called an ambulance.
He’d called Terry.
La Arana had showed up ten minutes later and walked right up to the guy lying there face down in the grass. He’d pulled out his Ruger with the silencer and put two nine-millimeter holes in the back of his head.
“Any more?” Terry had asked, scanning the yard like he expected an entire battalion lying in wait.
Daniel had looked down at the body. “No.”
They’d wrapped him in an old groundsheet and shoved him into the backseat of Daniel’s Camry. And then Terry had gone off to do what Terry did best—make people disappear.
Daniel had stood there a long time afterwards, staring at the dark, wet smear the body had left behind. He didn’t regret that the man was dead. But he did regret needing to get Terry involved. Help from The Spider always came with long, tangled strings attached.
When he finally headed back to his RV, Tequila nosed at his palm as he passed.
The girl was still where he’d left her, curled on the floor in the recovery position, her blonde hair tangled across her face. He’d washed the blood from his hands, then kneeled beside her and brushed the strands away. She’d shivered, mumbling something incoherent.
He’d pulled her dress back down, then fetched the cleanest hoodie he owned, easing it over her head and sliding her arms into the sleeves. It swallowed her frame, falling longer than her dress had.
Then he’d lifted her onto his bed, pulled a blanket over her, and sat against the wardrobe, watching her sleep as the sun crept over the horizon.
Now, Terry nudged his chin toward the trailer. “She still out?”
Daniel shook his head. “She’s gone.”
Terry blinked. “You let her go?”
Daniel just shrugged.
Terry swiped a hand down his sweaty face, even though the sun had barely risen. “Big mistake, man.”
Daniel chewed the inside of his cheek. “She didn’t see anything, Terry. Like you said—she was out for the count.”
Terry made a face. “Doesn’t mean she won’t go to the cops.
Even if she doesn’t remember much, they’ll still investigate.
” He replaced his sunglasses. “And you realize what happens if a bunch of cops come sniffing around here, right?” He gestured to the yard.
“You got that guy’s blood all over your grass. His DNA’s in your trailer. And hers.”
Daniel clenched his jaw. Said nothing.
“They’ll have you in cuffs on sight, Danny.” Terry’s voice was sharp now. “You know how the cops in this city are. One look at you, and you’re the fucking rapist.”
Daniel forced himself to stay still, but his stomach churned.
He looked at the spot where Terry had ended that guy’s life.
He’d thrown a bucket of water over it this morning, but the blood had dried into the grass.
Even if he dug up the whole lawn—which wouldn’t be suspicious at all—forensics could probably still pull DNA from the soil.
Terry let the silence stretch before playing his trump card.
“If you go down for this, think about Sebastián.” His voice was lower now, more calculated. “Think about what happens to your little brother. He’ll be on a bus back to the border before you can blink.”
Daniel exhaled through his nose. His fists flexed against his thighs.
Terry was right.
Letting the girl go had been a mistake.
A big one.
Terry studied him, then nodded to himself. “You’d better find her, Daniel. And deal with it.” He paused. “If you don’t, I will.”
Daniel had a vivid, stomach-turning image of what ‘dealing with it’ would look like in Terry’s hands. La Arana had been an Army Ranger for fifteen years, deployed everywhere from Beirut to Somalia, and had acquired skills even a surgeon couldn’t match. And he really enjoyed using them.
The thought of Terry applying those skills to Julia made Daniel’s gut twist. He didn’t want her hurt. But if it came down to it, he’d rather take that sin on himself than let Terry near her. He shook his head. “No. I’ll handle it.”
Terry smirked, reading his hesitation. “I didn’t say you gotta hurt her. Just scare her a little. Remind her that actions have consequences.”
Daniel nodded, relief washing over him. Just scare her. A little.
He could do that.
Terry jerked his thumb toward the Camry.
“Oh, and by the way, you got a big clean-up job in there. Fucker bled all over the backseat. Hope you got a bucket. And a shitload of bleach.” He slid his sunglasses back into place.
“And don’t use hot water,” he added over his shoulder. “Cooks the blood into the upholstery.”
Then he turned and walked back to his truck, a late-model Chevy Suburban. Conveniently evidence-free.
Daniel watched him go, then looked down at the keys in his hand, exhaling sharply.
Apparently, he had a lot of cleaning up to do.
* * *
Daniel held up the dainty gold chain so that it caught the fading light coming through the windshield. He’d found it under his bed a few days ago. The clasp was broken, yanked apart as if someone had ripped it from her neck. He’d fixed it with a pair of tweezers.
A ballet slipper dangled from the end. And engraved on it, in tiny words, was a name.
Julia Mikkelsen.
He looked up through the windshield at the Mikkelsen mansion. The gaps in the huge wrought-iron gates gave him a good view of the place. It was one of the fanciest in the neighborhood. And it was a pretty fucking fancy neighborhood.
The house was massive. A monolith of gleaming white stone, set back from the road down a sweeping circular drive. In front was a giant marble fountain he could probably swim laps in. The garage was at least a six-car job.
For a very long time, he just sat there, across the road from her house, his Beretta clutched in his palm.
It was a little after ten at night when a black BMW coupe came down the lane and turned into the drive. As it passed, he caught a flash of blond hair and knew from that brief glance it was her.
The gates closed behind her. She eased the car up beside the garage but left it idling, neither parking inside nor getting out.
From where he watched, he had a clear view through the window.
Night had fallen, but the lights of the house cut a sharp silhouette of her.
Her head was bowed, like she was praying to the steering wheel.
Long minutes passed, and still she made no move to get out.
It hit him like a slap—maybe she’d seen him parked there. Maybe she was already on the phone with the cops, tucked safely in her car, waiting for backup to roll in, sirens wailing.
His grip tightened on the gun, slick with sweat. Should I go? The thought stabbed through the haze of adrenaline.
But the minutes dragged on, heavy and silent. No flashing lights. No sirens.
Still, unease prickled along his spine. This was the kind of neighborhood where a call about someone like him—brown skin, sitting alone, not belonging—wouldn’t be ignored. Not for long. If she’d called, they’d be here already.
So, no, she hadn’t spotted him. And he knew what he had to do.
He had to stride up to her car door, shove his gun in her face and tell her that if she didn’t keep her fucking mouth shut about what had happened in his trailer, she’d wind up in a dumpster along with the other guy. Or bits of her would, anyway.
And yet he couldn’t coax his body to carry out that plan.
Time stretched on for so long without her moving that he reached for the door handle to get out and check if she was still breathing.
The irony struck him hard. Here he was, one hand gripping a gun that could easily end her life, the other poised to perhaps save it.
Thankfully, before he cleaved himself in half with indecision, she abruptly sat up in her seat and opened the car door. She climbed out, head still downcast, and swiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. Even from this distance, it was obvious she’d been crying.
His gun was sweaty in his grip. Terry’s voice was in his head. Remind her that actions have consequences.
Right now, though, the only thing he could remember was how she’d felt in his arms as he’d lifted her onto his bed. How her hair had fanned over his shoulder. How the skin on the back of her thighs had felt impossibly soft against his forearm.
“Fuck,” he muttered, tossing the gun onto the passenger floorboard. He started the car, reversed in a wide arc, then slipped away into the night.
* * *
Julia dried her cheeks with the back of her hand, took a big sniff, then glanced around to make sure no one had witnessed her crying alone in her car.
But, as usual, she was the only one at home.
Her mom and stepdad’s cars were both parked in the garage, but she knew neither of them were here.
Her mom was in Rome with her sister for a dress fitting, and her stepfather was in Japan for a charity golf event.
It wasn’t unusual for her to find herself rattling around in this big house on her own. Her family spent more time apart than together. It was rare for them all to find themselves in the same city, let alone the same house.
She slung her dance bag over her shoulder, still dabbing at her eyes. She tried to blame her sudden bout of tears on exhaustion from eight hours of rehearsal and two more of performing. But, deep down, she knew that wasn’t it.
It had been four days since the night of the party.
The bruises on her neck were buried under a thick layer of stage makeup.
And she thought she’d done a pretty good job of burying the memories of it, too.
She’d shoved the whole incident into a box in the back of her mind and nailed the lid shut.
If there was one thing that she was good at, it was compartmentalizing.
It was her superpower. She ran her life with the rigidity of a barre routine.
Trauma was put in boxes. Smiles were painted on. And the show went on.
She shut the car door and headed toward the house. When she reached the front door, she paused on the threshold and cast another glance behind her. While she’d been sitting in the car, she’d had the strangest feeling she was being watched.
But there was no one out there. Her drive was empty. Nothing disturbed the still night air, save for the distant sound of a retreating car.