Today’s Forecast Just Another Shitstorm （Two Months Later） #2
Holding her breath, she froze. When no one appeared to react to the piece of paper sliding out into the hallway, she took the end of the crucifix and gently pushed it into the keyhole from her side.
A tiny chink sounded from the other side of the door, muffled by the paper.
Slowly and gently, she pulled the paper back.
Sitting on her haunches, she took a moment to absorb the iron key lying on the paper in front of her. When she convinced herself it wasn’t a mirage, she snatched it from the floor, inserted it into the lock on her side, turned it, and ever so slowly opened the door.
Nothing.
An empty hallway.
What the ever-loving fuck? There was no one here guarding her? In what alternate universe was that even a possible reality?
Guillermo was going to have a stroke if he ever realized how easy it was for her to escape.
And why wasn’t he here? There was only one thing more important to Guillermo than cartel business, and that was his Gigi.
The man was obsessed with his pretty little American toy.
Every day, he commented on how he couldn’t live without her.
Was he not here because her betrayal had cut him so deeply that he couldn’t kill her himself?
If that explained his lack of presence, it did not explain the lack of Cesar’s. She shuddered. His second-in-command would have no such issues. Oh, he’d play with her first, and she’d wish for death before he granted it.
Best not to think about it. Even thinking his name just once might create a Beetlejuice scenario. No sense channeling her worst nightmare into reality.
The hallway was dimly lit by a wall sconce at the end, but there was no guard. All the doors to the rooms on this floor were open, and no sound emanated from any of them, which meant no snoring house sitters.
Downstairs, she could hear the television, men talking, and bottles clinking, so she wasn’t completely alone here.
Maybe they thought that with her drugged and tied up, they didn’t have to keep their guard as heavy?
That didn’t make sense either. Given that Guillermo knew her true intentions, he couldn’t possibly believe she wouldn’t try to escape.
Why were the guards being so lackadaisical about this?
She gave herself a mental shove. There wasn’t time to worry about this now. Later, when she had some distance between her and this house, and a place to hide, she could obsess over why Guillermo’s normally tighter-than-tight security was barely making a D-minus grade.
Ducking into the closest room, she rifled through its contents and shoved whatever useful items she could find into a ratty backpack she spotted in the corner.
She quickly changed into a clean shirt and a pair of pants, both too big for her, but she couldn’t afford to be picky right now.
By the time she finished, fifteen minutes had passed.
Heading downstairs on bare feet, she prayed her luck would hold and that whoever was in the house stayed where they were. The living room, by the sounds of it. The sounds she’d heard earlier suggested a poker game was in progress while they waited for instructions.
When she reached the second-to-last step, she had to slink along the banister or risk being seen through the doorway to the living room.
Down the hallway, a single dim light served as a beacon above the ancient stove in the kitchen.
A quick search of the pantry gave her access to some beef jerky and packages of chips, as well as some bottled water, which went into her backpack. Then she headed toward the back door.
Outside, she saw an old, beat-up truck. Quickly, she considered the risk of hot-wiring it.
The living room was on the far side of the large farmhouse, so hearing the vehicle start was a fifty-fifty chance.
Deciding it wasn’t worth the risk, she put on the too-big shoes she’d stuffed with washcloths from the bathroom and jogged into the darkness, running parallel to the dirt road.
Fifteen minutes later, she came upon the edge of the town. Several vehicles lined the dusty street. After checking a few of them, she selected one, hopped inside the cab, found the keys in the visor above, and drove north out of town.
As San Martín de los Andes faded behind her and the sun rose, her eyes flicked between the side and rearview mirrors, watching for suspicious vehicles.
Out of a nervous habit from years long past, she worried the chain back and forth across her chin, tapping the ornament against her skin.
Earlier, she’d ruminated on her necklace’s significance and used it to send up a prayer for an easy escape.
What she hadn’t prayed for—or rather, who—was her brother.
Joey.
His death had changed so much, yet nothing had really changed at all.
Newspaper and television reporters had done all the hard work for her after her brother’s death.
Front and center in their stories was the young man himself, Joseph Thompson, whose promising life was cut short when he became caught in the cross fire of rival gangs taking their war to the streets of San Diego.
Promising. Since when was being a drug dealer a step toward upward mobility? That reporting copy had her parents’ rhetoric all over it.
Still, she’d loved her brother, faults and all. She’d practically raised him herself because her parents basically demanded she be his surrogate parent. When she was young, she’d loved taking care of Joey. It was like having a live doll. He’d been such a good baby. So smiley and happy.
As she’d gotten older, though, she needed to be a kid herself. After all, she had her own friends, her own schoolwork, and her own goals. It was difficult not to be resentful when her needs, her plans, her dreams were pushed aside because Joey wanted or needed something. Who wouldn’t?
Now, almost a dozen years later, she still felt anger at them for their callous disregard of their firstborn child. Then guilt surged. It wasn’t his fault their parents had screwed up. They weren’t bad people at heart. They just… made mistakes.
She pushed back tears as the memories of Joey’s death slammed into her yet again. Most days, she could keep the pain at bay, but it was always there. Lurking. Just waiting for the opportunity to slither out, wrap around her heart, and strangle it.
It was moments like this, in the quiet, with no droning sycophants of Guillermo’s, no constant weapon reports, and no Guillermo himself, when her parents’ voices volleyed back and forth inside her head.
“If you hadn’t told us such vicious lies about your brother, he would have been here safe that night.”
“If you had gone after him when we asked you to, he would never have been in that neighborhood.”
“You were always jealous of him. You probably planted those drugs in his room, and now look what you caused.”
“His blood is on your hands!”
“I’ll never forgive you!”
“You’re no daughter of ours!”
A clanging church bell, like the ones at Joey’s funeral, echoed louder and louder beneath their rising accusations until it drowned out their words and left behind only the cuts against her heart, each one deeper than the last. Suddenly, it registered that those weren’t church bells but the clanging of a bell around the neck of a goat walking alongside the mountain road.
A shattered gasp escaped Glennon’s throat as she slammed on the brakes to avoid hitting it.
She’d been lost in the memories, not paying any attention to her surroundings. That couldn’t happen. That was a sure way to end up dead.