Catalina. Don’t drop this case. Don’t stay safe. Is it working? Please tell me it’s working.”
“God, you are an asshole.” It just kind of came out.
Alessandro drew back. “Such a dirty mouth. Oh, the possibilities.”
“You have no possibilities with my mouth! Nobody has any possibilities with my mouth!” I did not just say that.
He laughed. He laughed at me.
“Halle’s seventeen, Alessandro. She’s innocent. Whatever her mother did or didn’t do, she shouldn’t be paying the price for it. Tell me what’s going on so I can find her. Don’t you have any compassion at all?”
“The sooner you realize that I’ll tell you nothing, the easier it will be. Give up, Catalina. It’s being handled.”
He turned onto our street.
“Stop the car.”
The Alfa slid to a stop with a metallic groan. I unbuckled my seat belt.
“Catalina, let me take you to the door. I know your leg hurts.”
I climbed out of the car clutching my dog and my sword.
“Don’t be a hero,” he called.
I wished I had a free hand so I could flip him off. I marched toward the security booth, grimly determined to not limp.
“Hey,” he shouted. “At least we finally had our drive.”
“Drop dead.”
I marched to the booth, the grinding noise of the Alfa driving away receding behind me.
The two guards in the booth stared at me. I saw my reflection in the glass as I passed them. Most of me was covered with a uniform layer of dirt and dust from lying on the floor of the mall. Blood splattered my face, my neck, and my white turtleneck. Bits of Celia’s skull and brains hung in my hair. Two bullet holes punctured my coat, right in the middle of the chest and a little to the left.
Terrific. Just terrific.
The dirty, matted dog whined softly in my arms.
“I know, right?” Some pair we made.
If I walked like this through the front door, my family would suffer a collective apoplexy. I needed to clean myself up. My best bet would be to go through the motor pool, at least wash my face and hands, and then try to sneak upstairs to my room. That meant circling the warehouse.
I turned into the narrow space between the warehouse and a concrete wall separating it from the next parking lot and limped on.
Ow. Ow.
I never quite realized how large our place was.
Ow.
Did we really need a warehouse this big?
The little dog whined again, overcome with some sort of canine sadness.
“Shh. You’ll blow our cover.”
I finally turned the corner. The huge industrial bay doors stood open and the motor pool inside seemed deserted. Everything was in its regular place: Brick and Romeo, Grandma’s pet tank, covered with tarps, the armored Humvee we used for dangerous jobs, and Grandma’s latest commission, a medium-size track vehicle waiting in the middle of the floor.
A lopsided tangle of blue yarn on circular needles lay on the worktable. Nevada once told Grandma Frida that other grandmas knitted things for their grandchildren. Ever since then she made valiant efforts to knit presents for each of us, and the current Gordian knot was supposed to be my sweater. Usually she took it with her when she was done for the day.
I stopped and listened. The motor pool lay silent. Nothing moved. The coast was clear.
Maybe Grandma Frida had run inside to use the bathroom.
I limped through the doors and headed toward the sink. Grandma Frida chose that moment to jump out of a track vehicle’s cab. She stared at me, her blue eyes widening.
I had to distract her, quick. “The Honda might be totaled, but I left two Guardians without drivers at Keystone Mall. They’re all yours, just don’t forget to disable their GPS . . .”
Grandma Frida walked past me and pressed the intercom.
“Please, please don’t,” I begged.
My grandmother mashed the intercom button. “Penelope, the baby is hurt.”
I wasn’t a baby. I was twenty-one years old, but it didn’t matter. To Grandma Frida all three of us would always remain babies. “I said please.”
Grandma’s eyes held no mercy. “She’s got two bullet holes in her coat and someone’s brains in her hair. Come quick.”
Damn it.
The world was full of interesting words used to describe complicated things. There was tartle, a Scottish word for the panicked pause you experience when you have to introduce someone, but you don’t remember their name. There was backpafeifengesicht, a German term for a face you’d love to punch. There was gigil, a Filipino word for the urge to squeeze an item because it is unbearably