A Fierce and Subtle Poison - Samantha Mabry Page 0,12

Celia shouted. She released one of her hands and pointed in the direction of the beach. “There are ambulances near the water. I can see their lights.”

Carlos, Ruben, and I shared a glance. All three of us were thinking the same thing. Someone had gone out for a late-night or early-morning swim and had fallen victim to the currents. That happened sometimes, maybe once every couple of years, but usually when the weather was much worse, causing the sea to tumble like a furious machine.

Today the sky was clear and bright, almost a postcard-perfect shade of azure.

We skirted around the side of one of the hotels and got as close to the shore as we could. Access to the beach, however, was blocked by police tape. Small crowds of locals had formed; word of mouth had worked in its typical swift and efficient way. Beyond the crowd and closer to the water, the lights of squad cars and the ambulances silently flashed. Several television reporters stood at the ready in front of their cameramen with microphones in hand. From the balconies of their sea-facing rooms, tourists pressed against the railing. Somewhere not too far away, a dog was barking.

As we merged with the rest of the onlookers, I heard some of them murmuring, praying, speculating. I lowered Celia from my shoulders, and her feet sank into the sand.

Ruben stood up on his toe-tips and raised his chin, trying to peer over the shoulders and between the heads of the people who had gotten there before us. None of us could see much.

“We can try La Andalusia,” Carlos suggested, pointing to the barely visible white shell of a high-rise with torn and faded red awnings several hundred meters down the beach. “We can probably get a better view from there. Less people.”

“Forget it,” I replied. “We’re not taking a little girl to a condemned hotel. We should probably get out of here anyway. This isn’t really the place for . . . ”

“The girl from Florida!” A man wearing khaki shorts and a white T-shirt with underarms stained with in sweat came trotting up the beach in our direction. His face was sunburned, his eyes red and rheumy.

“Hey!” A woman in mirrored sunglasses and a police badge clipped to the waist of her gray slacks stomped in the man’s direction. Her black hair was lacquered down onto her scalp and pulled back into bun so severe that it looked more like punishment than a style; her lips were painted a bold shade of matte red.

I ducked my head, hoping the woman wouldn’t notice me. It was Mara Lopez. The last time I’d seen her was a year ago, on a night I’d rather forget. She was dressed differently then, in a beat cop uniform rather than in plainclothes.

The sunburned man glanced briefly over his shoulder at the woman and then went on. “The search dogs found her. She was almost completely buried in the sand.” He stopped to catch his breath and dab his face with a red and white bandanna that he’d pulled from his back pocket. Whispers of pobrecita passed through the crowd.

“Move on, señor!” Mara Lopez roared, dodging the reporter who’d just materialized to shove a microphone in her face. “This is a crime scene. Leave it to the professionals.”

“Está muerta?” someone shouted from the crowd.

“Let’s go, Celia,” Ruben commanded, picking up the bags he’d set down and grabbing his cousin by the arm.

“Sí,” the red-faced man lamented with a sad, slow nod. “She was probably in the water for a long time.”

“Move it!” Mara Lopez issued her command in English and again in Spanish. “We’re trying to do our jobs here.” Despite my efforts to hide, her eyes landed on mine. I saw myself—a doubled, distorted reflection—in the lenses of her glasses.

I looked away and noticed that Celia had crouched down and wedged herself between the legs of the people standing in front of us. All ten of her fingers were resting on the police tape, and she’d gone as still as a mountain, her eyes fixed on a cluster of people I assumed were more detectives near the edge of the water. They were examining something at their feet.

“Celia, now!” Ruben demanded.

“Let’s go.” I picked up Celia, and once in my arms, she wound her legs around my torso and clutched my shoulders. I followed Ruben and Carlos as they wedged themselves through the growing crowd. Together we made our way silently back up to the