Chapter 16 #2
I pick up the forgery, turn it over in my hands. The binding feels worn, authentic. The paper has weight and texture—nothing like fresh stock. The ink has that faded quality, like it's been sitting in someone's attic for decades, slowly yellowing with time.
Perfect, just like everything she does.
I set it down next to the original and stare at both of them. Can't tell which is which without checking my memory of where I put them. The craftsmanship is flawless.
She can forge anything, make the fake so convincing you'd swear it was real.
Real and counterfeit. Truth and performance.
"Coffee."
At her voice, I turn and find her in the doorway, one shoulder against the frame, hair messed from sleep, still in the oversized T-shirt she wore to bed. Her eyes are heavy-lidded, unfocused. The ring catches light as she lifts a hand to push hair out of her face.
I pour her a mug, add the cream she likes. "What time did you finish working on this?"
She accepts the coffee, wraps both hands around it. "It's not finished. Won't be finished until I source the right binding materials and age the whole thing properly. Maybe another six months."
"Right."
I tip my coffee to my lips, eyes on her as she takes that first sip. "I need to exercise. I'm starting to feel like a slug."
I cover a smile. "We can hit the gym if you want."
Her eyes meet mine over the rim of her mug. "Whose gym?"
"Valentina's a part owner."
Probably another business she can wash money through.
Adena doesn't look thrilled, but she just shrugs. "Fine. I'll go get changed."
She disappears into the bedroom, taking her coffee with her.
While I sip my coffee, I look over the table again. Notice what I missed before—rejected pages scattered across the surface. Several of them. Practice attempts, maybe.
I pick up the first one, scanning the text. Most of the words gloss over me—names and places I don't recognize—until I notice a small pencil mark in the margin. Faint. Easy to miss unless you're looking.
Next to it: Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one's life for one's friends. John 15.
I pick up another discarded page. Another mark, just as subtle. Romans 10. If you confess with your mouth that Jesus is Lord and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved.
Then another. A tiny dot beside the verse. Ephesians 2. For by grace you have been saved through faith. And this is not your own doing; it is the gift of God, not a result of works.
Acts 16. Same small mark. Believe in the Lord Jesus, and you will be saved.
They're all over the table. Not hidden. Not tucked away. Just... there. In plain sight where I'd see them when I made coffee. When I sat down. When I looked at her work.
Each one marked with a barely-there pencil stroke that says read this one.
They all tie into one theme.
Believe. Confess. Be saved.
Three steps. Instructions.
The bedroom door opens. Adena comes out dressed in workout clothes, bag over her shoulder, hair pulled back in a ponytail. The ring is still on her finger—looks out of place against the casual tank top and leggings, but she hasn't taken it off.
Her eyes flick to the pages in my hand, then to my face. She doesn't look away. Doesn't pretend she didn't mean for me to see them.
She left them here. Scattered across the table where I'd find them. "Mistakes" that aren't mistakes at all. Each verse carefully marked so I wouldn't miss them.
She’s leaving me Scriptures like love letters and hoping I'm smart enough to read them.
She's telling me something she can't say out loud. Not with the walls listening. Not with Marquez's people watching.
“You ready?” she says.
There's a challenge in her question. An invitation.
I tap the page and nod slowly. “I need a little more time,” I say.
Her smile carries the same message the verses do—grace offered, not earned. “Whenever you're ready, I’ll be right behind you,” she says.
The words settle over me like a weight I don't know if I can carry. She's offering me something I've spent years running from, something I'm not sure I deserve.
But the way she looks at me—like she sees past all the lies and blood and broken pieces to something worth saving—makes me want to believe her.
Adena
Valentina’s gym takes up the entire second floor of a warehouse in the Industrial District. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the street, but the glass is tinted dark—you can see out, but no one can see in.
Everything gleams. Chrome. Glass. LED strips running along the ceiling casting cold white light over everything. And it’s full. Men lifting heavy, grunting through sets. Women on cardio equipment, barely sweating, makeup perfect. Everyone’s watching everyone else, sizing each other up.
Nothing like Jericho.
On the ranch in North Dakota, the gym has scuffed mats and smells like old leather and sweat. Scripture covers one wall: “Cursed is the man who trusts in man, who makes flesh his strength, and whose heart turns away from the Lord.” —Jeremiah 17:5. That gym is familiar, safe.
This place is neither.
This is where the muscle and the girls hang out, and right now Jagger’s showing off his in a tank.
The swagger in his walk is pronounced, chest out, shoulders back, taking up space.
Around me, the gym pulses with bass-heavy music filled with expletives and the clang of weights hitting the floor.
Grunts. Exhaled breath. The sharp chemical smell of cleaning products mixed with sweat and expensive cologne.
I jam my earbuds in without hitting play, muffling the noise, and start the treadmill slow. The belt hums beneath my feet, rubber squeaking with each step.
A surgically enhanced woman on the elliptical beside me glances over—quick assessment, then dismissal. Two thugs by the Smith machine stop mid-set to watch. Their conversation drops to murmurs I can feel more than hear.
The ring on my finger catches the overhead lights as I grip the handrails and clanks noisily.
I push the speed up, let the burn start in my calves and spread.
Focus on breath—in through the nose, out through the mouth.
The rhythm usually clears my head, but not today.
Today I’m tracking every glance, every whisper, every person calculating whether I’m worth their attention or their contempt.
In the mirror ahead, I catch sight of Jagger spotting someone on the bench press, standing too close, laughing at something. A woman in skin-tight leggings walks past, slows down, and says something that makes him grin.
It’s a jarring transformation. The man who sat quietly with me this morning is gone, replaced by a loud, arrogant version of himself I’d cross the street to avoid.
The treadmill’s speed climbs. My legs protest, but I push harder. Sweat drips down my spine and soaks into my shirt.
Forty minutes later, my legs are shaking, and my shirt is plastered to my skin. I slow to a walk and hit stop, grab my towel and water bottle, and head for the women’s locker room.
I push open the door. Three women stand near the sinks. Two are comforting a third, younger one.
The one in the middle I recognize from the gym floor—the one I saw with Jagger.
Mid-twenties, pretty in the calculated way that takes work.
The woman to her left is older, maybe thirty, ash blonde with severe cheekbones and arms that say she doesn’t just pose with the weights.
Built like she could snap someone in half.
The third is younger, sobbing, early twenties, tanned blonde with curves packed into bright pink spandex, fake lashes, long, pointed pink nails with glittered tips, full lips. She glances my way, and her entire face twists.
The brunette meets my eye. “You picked a lousy time to come in here.”
I stop in my tracks, the door still settling behind me. The air is charged, vibrating with hostility I can feel on my skin.
“She sure did,” the pink gym bunny says.
I move to my locker and start pulling out my shower supplies. “Since you all know who I am, how about you tell me who you are?”
The brunette speaks first. “I’m Rosa. I work downstairs at the juice bar. This is Mercedes, Paco’s girl, and that’s Lucia.”
The youngest steps closer, bringing wafts of sickly sweet perfume with her. “Until you showed up, I was Jagger’s woman,” she spits.
My stomach twists. I don’t want to hear this. Don’t want the images in my head.
“That’s ancient history,” I say.
“Is it?” She steps closer. “Because he told me he’d vouch for me. Then one day, he just stopped coming around. No explanation. No goodbye.”
“Lucia, you know—” Rosa starts.
Lucia’s voice rises. “He’s real good at making you feel like you’re the only one. But there were others. So many others.”
Heat crawls up my neck. Not embarrassment. Anger. Not even at her.
At Jagger—for using women as props in his cover, all in the name of the job.
I want to tell her to move on, to find a man who won’t treat her that way, but I can’t. I can’t say anything. I have to pretend that I’m okay with the path of destruction this lifestyle causes.
“Lucia, enough,” Mercedes snaps. “She works for Marquez now, and she’s committing to Jagger. You know what that means.”
But Lucia’s not done. “Commitment doesn’t mean anything to Jagger, sugar.”
I don’t look at her. I keep my hands busy, but she moves into my space, blocking the locker door.
“You think you’re different because you’re upstairs in the office?” she sneers. “You think you’re untouchable?”
“Move, Lucia,” I say, my voice low and level.
“Or what? You’ll tell him?” She laughs, jagged and ugly. “You’re just a tool to him. A pen with a pulse. If someone else comes along, you’ll be just as disposable.”
I meet her eyes, and what comes out is calculated cruelty. It’s exactly what a paper pusher for a cartel would say, and the moment the words leave my lips, I hate myself for them.
“Jagger needed an upgrade, sugar. That’s why I’m the one with the ring.”
Her face goes red. “You smug—”
She lunges, fist swinging wildly.
I dodge, but before I can step back, she grabs a handful of my hair and yanks hard.
Reflex takes over, and I grab her wrist with both hands, trying to pry her fingers loose, but she’s got a solid grip. She uses the leverage to slam me sideways into the lockers. My shoulder hits metal with a crash that echoes through the room.
She comes at me again, claws aimed like daggers at my face. Typical cat fight. Strictly amateur hour. I almost feel bad when I plant my feet and shove her backward so hard she stumbles and nearly goes down.
“Lucia, stop it!” Rosa’s voice cuts through, but she doesn’t move to help.
Lucia ignores her. She charges, both hands reaching for me.
I sidestep and she crashes into the lockers. The metal rattles. She spins around, breathing hard, raining down obscenities.
“Go get Jagger!” Rosa yells to Mercedes.
Lucia rushes me again, screaming something incoherent. I catch her by the shoulders and use her own momentum to spin her around. One hand on her shoulder blade, the other on her elbow, I guide her past me and shove her toward the bench.
She grabs a hairdryer off the counter, arm cocked to swing. I brace—
The doors burst open.
Jagger storms in, fury written all over him, Mercedes and another woman right behind. Mercedes lunges, wrestling the hairdryer from Lucia’s grip.
Jagger’s eyes lock on Lucia, and I have just enough time to grab my bag before he seizes my arm and hauls me through the doors.