Chapter 37 Hawk
HAWK
I get back to my place and chuck my boots in the foyer. The AC cools my sweat-soaked skin.
Texas summers are relentless.
My shoulders ache. My hands are tight from the drive, from too much thinking about things I can’t undo.
Images cloud my mind.
Eagle in that hospital bed.
Fragments of Ted’s skull and brain matter on the floor of my father’s office.
Daniela, as a child, being forced to do the unthinkable.
And the man in my barn who’s still breathing when he shouldn’t be.
I need something to do with my hands before I put them somewhere I can’t take back.
I head to the kitchen. A man needs to eat, after all.
I open the fridge and take stock—eggs, cherry tomatoes, a wedge of Manchego, half a roasted chicken. Bread under a towel on the counter. The smell of it—yeast and flour, faintly sweet—takes me back to mornings when life was simpler.
What a crock.
My life has never been simple.
Even when I thought it was, when I was playing carefree games of Monopoly with Ted, things were brewing under the surface. I just didn’t know it yet.
I slice the bread thick, drizzle it with olive oil, and slide it under the broiler until the edges go dark gold.
The pan hisses when I drop the tomatoes in.
They burst open, bleeding red, smelling like I’m walking past an Italian bistro.
I shred the chicken and toss it in with the tomatoes. Add thyme. Smoked paprika.
This is for me. But I make twice as much.
Not because he deserves it. No. Reyes doesn’t deserve anything but the business end of a shovel. But keeping a man fed keeps him sharp. And I want him sharp. I want him to know exactly how deep in it he is.
Two plates. Toast on the side. Cheese shaved so thin it melts when it lands on the chicken. I eat, the good food tasting like sawdust, and then pack the rest in a plastic meal-prep tray.
Time to drive to the barn.
* * *
Reyes is awake.
His eyes are hard, but his wrists tell the truth. They’re red and raw from fighting the rope. His ankles are bound to the chair legs, and the sock in his mouth is wet.
I set the tray next to him.
“Before I take that out,” I say, gesturing to the sock, “let’s be clear. Nobody will hear you out here. You scream, you waste breath.”
His eyes narrow.
I yank the sock free. He spits. A hot splatter on my boot.
I look down at it and then back at him. “You done?”
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” His voice is rough, hoarse from the gag.
“What does it look like? Keeping you from running your mouth about my little visit to your place.” I look into his eyes. “I just need something concrete. Evidence of what you’ve done. Then we’ve got a stalemate. You keep quiet. I keep quiet.”
“You want a confession? I’ll give you a confession.” He lets out an ugly laugh. “Take out your phone. Record it right now.”
I shake my head. “A confession in a barn, tied to a chair? That’s worth shit. I need something that sticks. And not just in court. Something your family, your friends, your business buddies couldn’t forgive. Like raping an underage girl in Colombia.”
His eyes flash. “She was of age under Colombian law.”
The punch to his arrogant face lands before I even think about it. The crack echoes in the rafters.
My palm stings.
“She didn’t consent,” I say, low. “So her age doesn’t matter.”
He tugs at the ropes, chair scraping against the floor. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I know exactly what I’m talking about.” I pace around his chair.
“And I know your niece wouldn’t want to hear it.
” I grip his shoulders from behind. “You like your cushy life? I’ll let you keep it.
Not because you deserve it, but because I’m not in the mood to add another body to my conscience. Even yours.”
Something shifts in his face.
Guilt?
No.
It’s more like he’s calculating, trying to figure out what he can get away with.
“You want proof?” he says finally. “In my closet. Back wall. You’ll find a safe. In it is my diary. Every detail about what I’ve done with Jacinto Agudelo. And pictures.”
Diary?
Reyes sure doesn’t seem the journaling type.
Still, my gut goes cold.
“Pictures of what?”
“Taken while your girlfriend was entertaining me.”
My second punch knocks his head sideways. “You sick fuck.”
“I’m not proud of it.”
“Then why keep the pictures?” I step in. “Did you get off on those photos? Alone?”
He doesn’t answer. Which is an answer.
“Fine.” I step back. “If I find what you’re talking about and it’s damning enough, I’ll come back and let you go. On one condition.”
He swallows. “Name it.”
“You never go near Daniela again.”
His eyes flicker, like he’s about to push me, test how far I’ll go. I don’t give him the chance.
I move behind him, unbind his hands, and then rebind them in front of him and hand him a fork as I gesture to the tray. “You eat, you live longer,” I tell him. “Lie to me, and this will be your last decent meal.”
He doesn’t thank me. Just picks up the fork, eyes locked on mine as he chews.
His eating grates on me. He sounds like a pig who just got slopped.
When he’s done, I give him a minute of privacy to relieve himself in the corner of the barn, and then I bind and gag him again.
I leave him alone with the taste of food in his mouth.
“If you’re lying to me,” I say before shutting the door, “I’ll fucking end you.”
The barn door creaks shut. The lock slides home.
And for the first time all day, I feel the smallest bit in control.