Chapter 9
DIEGO
Adjusting my running schedule was all it took. Now I just happen to pass through the commercial complex where his firm is located, sneakers on pavement, another guy logging miles in the Miami heat. Nobody clocks a runner twice.
The courtyard at the center is almost too perfect.
Tropical plants, manicured hedges, Birds of Paradise lining one side like they were planted for a magazine shoot.
Beautiful in the way that makes you aware of the contrast. I'm here to watch a man and figure out the quietest way to end him, and the scenery looks like a resort brochure.
It's warmer than my usual dawn runs, but I slept in this morning. Coffee with Ma. A normal hour before stepping back into this. Worth it.
I round the corner and someone walks directly into me.
Soft. Warm. Already off-balance.
I catch her before the thought forms.
"Watch it." Reflex, not anger.
She apologizes quickly, flustered, and then looks up.
Blonde hair spills over her shoulder. Sunlight finds it and turns it gold.
Her eyes meet mine and hold — green, not bright, not soft, muted, like sage pressed between fingers — and something shifts in the air between us that I don't have a name for and don't want one.
Her breath catches.
So does mine, which is the problem.
Color rises along her cheeks, down her throat. I follow it without deciding to. The line of her neck. The dip at her collarbone. She fits too easily into my hands and I am aware of that the entire time I'm holding her.
I let go first. Control. I don't need this.
I roll my eyes like she's nothing and jog past.
Behind me, a scoff. Small and sharp and indignant.
Good. Better she thinks I'm an asshole. The alternative is a problem I don't have room for right now.
Except her voice stays with me as I put distance between us. Soft, southern, apologetic in a way that somehow had an edge underneath it. The flush along her throat. The way she looked at me like she felt exactly what I felt and resented it just as much.
No. I don't linger. I don't do this.
Across the lot, my target emerges and heads toward his car.
Brand new Porsche. Of course. I clock the license plate, the parking sticker, the time.
Routine, patterns, vulnerabilities. He peels out toward lunch and I circle back to the truck, windows already hot from the sun, and write down everything I've gathered.
Less than fifteen minutes pass before movement catches my eye.
Blonde hair. She walks past the truck, two spaces down, unlocks a silver CRV, pulls a box from the back seat, and heads toward the building.
So she works here.
I watch her go and tell myself it's just habit. Clocking everyone in the environment. Situational awareness. Nothing specific about her.
I almost believe it.
My target pulls back into the lot before I've finished talking myself out of it.
He's moving fast, glancing over his shoulder before he gets out, tucking something into his jacket with the practiced ease of a man who does it often.
Salad in hand, easy stride, like the parking lot belongs to him.
I photograph the Porsche while he's inside — license plate, parking sticker, the mail visible on the passenger seat with the address showing, the three empty beer bottles and open condom wrapper on the floor, the notebooks scattered across the back seat.
Up close, the car smells like fast food and bad decisions.
For a man who argues law in tailored suits, he keeps his private life like a college freshman.
Sloppy men make mistakes. I'm counting on it.
I'm back in the truck and hours into mindless scrolling when my phone buzzes.
Raul.
"Yo."
"How's it looking?"
"Too easy. I expected more resistance. I'll have it wrapped before the end of the week."
A low chuckle. "That's what I like to hear. Keep me posted." A pause, then: "How's your mom?"
My grip tightens on the wheel. "She was good this morning. Why?"
"We helped her out a little."
Something about the phrasing lands wrong. "What does that mean?"
"Relax. Just a few pills so she's not uncomfortable. Same stuff she's been taking."
"Are you sure?"
"Positive. Came from the pharmacy. All clean."
"Next time you clear it with me first." I don't raise my voice. I don't have to.
Silence.
"Is that why you were at the house?"
"Yeah. Thought you knew."
I exhale slowly. "She didn't mention it." I hang up before either of us says something that turns this into a bigger conversation than I have patience for right now. Raul means well. He knows my feelings on this. If anything goes into her body, it goes through me first, and that's not negotiable.
The sun is dropping by the time my target finally reappears and heads for the Porsche. I give him a half block and pull out after him, easy, unhurried, Say Na low on the speakers.
He leads me to a strip lot with two options: pizza or liquor store. He doesn't slow down for the pizza place. Rushes into the liquor store looking over his shoulder on the way in, like the parking lot might be watching him.
My phone lights up. Ma.
Where are you mijo?
Out, won't be too late. Que paso?
If I pick up a shift tomorrow can you drop me off?
Yeah just let me know. Love you.
I lock the phone and watch the entrance.
I hate her working weekends downtown. Busier, less chance to sit, rougher crowd.
The driving doesn't bother me, I've been her ride since the accident and I'd do it without thinking.
It's everything around the driving that bothers me.
The fact that she has to go at all. The fact that surgery exists that could help her damaged nerves and we can't get close to affording it yet.
Soon. After this.
My target comes back out with two brown bags, tosses them in the trunk without looking, and peels out like he's already late. I fall in at a safe distance and follow him toward the parking garage, pace easy, nothing to see.
Routine. Predictable. Almost disappointing.
But my mind drifts anyway, the way it keeps doing today without my permission.
Blonde hair. Sage green eyes. That scoff.
I find myself wondering what she's doing on a Friday night, and then wondering why that's where my head goes when I'm supposed to be watching a man whose patterns I'm building into a blueprint.
I don't have a good answer.
I follow the Porsche into the dark of the garage and let the thought go.