A Fierce and Subtle Poison - Samantha Mabry Page 0,61

but I didn’t know he was trying to frame you for it. Lucas, I promise.”

“Why Marisol, then?” I demanded. “Out of all the girls, why did you pick her?”

Isabel faltered. “She had a wish to throw,” she said. “She had you.”

The very next moment, Rico climbed through the open window and stumbled into the room.

“Shit, man,” he chuckled. “I don’t remember that hole being so small.”

Rico surveyed the room, but the moment he saw Isabel, he recoiled, his fingers flying up to grasp to his St. Anthony medallion.

“Who’s this?”

“Have you seen the news?” I asked.

“I woke up. I came here,” Rico replied flatly. He jabbed the pointer finger of the hand that wasn’t twisting his charm at Isabel. “Who is this?”

Isabel’s arms were hanging down at her sides, and her hands were clenching in and out of fists.

“This is Isabel,” I said. “She lives at the house at the end of Calle Sol. She’s the scientist’s daughter.”

Rico opened his mouth, but his voice got caught in his throat. He took a step back, and his right knee buckled. He managed to catch himself by latching on to the back of a chair with his free hand. The other was still at his throat, clutching his small token of protection. He gaped—mouth open, mouth closed—like a fish, hooked and hoisted out of the water.

After a moment, he managed to compose himself enough to let out a tiny burst of laughter. “She’s not real.”

I looked to Isabel. I thought her face would’ve shown sorrow—at the very least mild disappointment—but it was composed, as if Rico’s reaction wasn’t unexpected.

“Of course she’s real.”

“Touch her then,” he dared.

I hesitated. “I can’t.”

“He can’t,” Isabel echoed.

“Why not?”

I didn’t have time to get into the complexities of Isabel’s existence.

“Mara Lopez is on TV,” I said, “telling the entire island that I beat up Isabel’s dad and kidnapped Celia.”

“Why would she say that?” Rico asked.

“My dad’s been taking the girls.” Isabel stepped forward. “Sara, Marisol, Celia. That’s why Lucas asked you to come. We need your scooter. I know where Celia is.”

“If you know where Celia is, you call the cops,” Rico replied, “not me.”

“Are you listening?” I hissed. “The cops think I did it! Isabel’s dad knew I had a history with the police here. He knew that these were Lopez’s cases. He’s been setting me up and steering her in my direction this entire time.”

Rico scoffed. “Get real, Luke.”

“Get real?” I moved toward him. “I’m the perfect fall guy. I’m sure half this town is already convinced I’m guilty and they’re glad about it. Even Ruben turned against me.”

“She came to you, too, yeah?” Rico asked with a snicker. “In your dreams? That girl whispered in your ear and told you she could give you anything you wanted? Because that’s what she told me. I tried to tell her I didn’t want nothing to do with her and her witchcraft, but she wouldn’t listen.” He ripped his hand from his pendant and flung his finger in Isabel’s direction. “Whatever she promises you, Lucas, it’s not worth it.”

“She didn’t promise me anything,” I replied, pushing his hand out of the air. “Are you even listening? This is not some dream you had. This is real. She is real. Her dad killed Marisol and then he took Celia.”

Then, coming from the direction of Avenida Ashford: the wail of police sirens. More than one, from the sound of it. I waited for the bouncing echoes to fade away, but they only seemed to get louder.

Isabel ran over to her duffle, dug quickly through its contents, and pulled out a bundle of letters tied together with red yarn. Walking up to Rico, she held the letters out to him. As always, she’d taken the precaution of covering much of her hand with the sleeve of her sweatshirt.

“These belong to you,” she said.

I knew immediately what they were. Wishes. Way more than I had ever thought to throw.

Rico waited a moment before snatching the batch of papers from Isabel and breaking the yarn. His eyes scanned the various scraps. From the size of the stack, there must have been at least twenty. Finally, his eyes lingered on one in particular. It was on a yellowed piece of lined paper, the kind with a combination of dashed and lined rows that kids use when they’re learning to write cursive.

The sirens outside had grown to a near-deafening howl.

“You were younger,” Rico said, his eyes still scanning his wishes. “In my dreams, you were a