Mission road - By Rick Riordan Page 0,82
orphan in need of a family.
More than that, Maia saw a resilience in Ana’s eyes that was nothing like the old photographs of her mother. Maybe Ana would not be raising her daughter quite the same way.
“What about you?” Ana asked.
“Me?”
“The pregnancy. Are you close with your mom?”
“Male relatives,” Maia managed. It seemed selfish, ridiculous to open up her own problems in the face of what Ana was going through. “An uncle raised me, mostly.”
Ana seemed to sense there was more. She waited.
“My mother died in childbirth,” Maia said. “Having me. The women in my family have a tendency to die in childbirth.”
“And now you’re pregnant.”
“I’m scared shitless, Ana.”
“Things are better now than they were in our mothers’ generation. Medically. In a lot of ways.”
“There’s more.”
It was the first time Maia had ever explained it to anyone. She had trouble finding the words, but something about Ana’s grief, the fact that she was already hurting, somehow made it easier for Maia to talk.
When she was done, Ana didn’t offer any consolations.
They sat together, Ana in her bed, Maia at her side. Steam curled off the chicken broth.
“That’s a lot to consider,” Ana admitted. “Are you going to have the baby?”
Maia said nothing.
“What about Tres?” Ana asked. “Would he help?”
“Yes. Maybe. I don’t know.”
“You’ll have to tell him soon. I mean, what, you’re about six weeks along?”
“Eight and a half.”
“Wow.” Ana folded her hands over the photo album, rested her head against her pillow. “Being a mother is the best thing I’ve ever done, in case you’re wondering. I can’t . . . I can’t pretend I have your concerns. But Lucia is the best thing in my life.”
“What about Guy White?” Maia asked. “Are you going to confront him?”
Ana’s eyes shone clear and intense. “Maybe when I’m stronger. I can’t do it now. The idea of having his blood inside me . . .”
Maia nodded. “I’ll keep it our secret.”
Ana turned up her palm, gave Maia’s hand a squeeze.
“I’ll need the rest,” Ana said. “I’ll need time just to be a mother for a while.”
Maia thought back to her brief baby-sitting stint with Lucia Jr. “I wouldn’t call that rest.”
Ana put her hand in a square of winter sunlight that was sliding across her bedspread. “You got that right, sister. You got that right.”
JULY 14, 1987
THE MERCEDES PULSED RED AND WHITE in Lucia’s emergency lights.
Despite all her years on the force, her courage wavered when Frankie White got out of his car.
He looked so much like his father, especially in this place, on this isolated road.
She watched him trudge toward her patrol unit, his blond hair and white shirt ghostly in the dark.
He was almost at her car door, intolerably close, before she got out to meet him.
“Well?” he demanded.
“Who’s in the car, Frankie?”
He glared at her as if she were a traffic signal—some annoying mechanism of society. He probably didn’t remember or care that they’d met before, that she’d warned him to stay away from her beat. Why should he? He’d been dealing with cops for years. They all called him by his first name. He was like their goddamn foster child.
“Nobody’s in the car,” he said. “I’m alone.”
Lucia glanced at the tinted windows of the Mercedes. She couldn’t see anyone inside, but back on South Alamo, when she’d first spotted him, she thought she saw a silhouette in his passenger’s seat—a young woman. When Frankie had turned on Mission Road, she’d had no choice but to follow.
“You don’t mind if I check it out.” She started forward.
He surprised her by grabbing her forearm. She yanked it away, felt his fingernails rip into her skin.
“Back off.” Her heart was pounding. “Kneel on the ground. Now.”
“Go away, lady,” Frankie told her, not moving. “Get out of here while you still can.”
“You threatening me? A police officer?”
His eyes were icy with rage. “The police are a fucking joke. You couldn’t arrest my father. What makes you think you can touch me?”
He pushed her shoulders, hard enough to send her staggering backward a few steps.
She drew her nightstick.
“Stop.” Her voice sounded shrill, even to herself.
She knew she should follow procedure. She had a violent subject. She should call for backup. She should not be arguing with him.
But her training was dissolving—the heavy blue thread she’d used to stitch her life together was swiftly coming unraveled. She was nineteen again—a young girl being shown that her power was nothing but an illusion.
“Get on the ground,” she ordered. She heard the wobble in her