When You See Me (Detective D.D. Warren #11)(2)

“What did you do?” he asks. He talks to my mother directly. Not yelling. His voice is cold, calm. It makes me tremble and want to cross myself.

“N-N-Nothing,” my mother tries.

She’s shaking too hard. I know she’s lying and the Bad Man knows it, too.

“Did you really think I wouldn’t find out? Did you really think you could outsmart me?”

My mother doesn’t answer. I stare at her a long time. Her face has gone blank, but in its smoothness, I realize whatever the man is accusing her of, she did it. And he found out. And now, something awful is going to happen.

We are a pack of two. I want to reach for her hand. I want to be a brave girl for her. But my legs are shaking uncontrollably. On my little stool, I can’t move.

Abruptly, my mother sets a pot into the sink, cutting the tension with a loud clatter. “Would you like some dinner? Burritos. Please, let me make you a plate.”

Speaking of food, her voice calms. She moves slightly, placing herself between the man and me.

“Sure,” the man says, but there is something in his voice that makes me tremble again.

I wish desperately I were in the closet. But I can’t duck in there now. Can’t go anywhere without him seeing. And some part of me, stubborn, foolish, stick-your-finger-into-hot-bubbling-chocolate stupid, doesn’t want to go, and leave this man-beast alone with my mother.

She picks up the plate I have dried. She moves smoothly to the stove, where there are leftover tortillas and cold beans. She takes her time. Tortilla. A spoonful of beans. A sprinkle of queso. Folding the burrito. Placing it back in the oven. Finding the salsa, delivering it to the table.

“Beer,” the man says.

My mother crosses to the tiny fridge, removes one of the beers tucked in the back.

She appears very composed, except for her hands, constantly crumpling her bright red skirt.

“Sit with me,” the man says after she removes the burrito from the oven.

“I must finish the dishes—”

“Sit with me.”

My mother sits. She shoots me a quick glance. There is something in her eyes, something she’s trying to tell me. Standing on my stool, I don’t understand. I don’t know where to go, what to do. We must take care, she said. But I don’t know how to take care of her now.

I just want this Bad Man to go away, and for my mother to be alone with me in the kitchen again.

The man eats his burrito. Bite by bite. He drinks his beer. He doesn’t speak, and the silence makes my tummy hurt.

As the last forkful is scooped up, delivered to the Bad Man’s mouth, my mother exhales slightly. Her shoulders slump. She has made some kind of decision, but I don’t know what.

The man glances in my direction.

“She’s very pretty.”

“She’s a baby,” my mother states coldly. She stands up. “We’ll go outside.”

The man raises a brow. “Feisty, aren’t you?”

“You want to talk? We go outside.”

“I don’t know. I like your kitchen. It’s very cozy in here. Maybe you should clear this table. We could show your daughter what you’re really good at.”

My mother stares at the man. Suddenly, she marches around the table, straight toward him. He flinches, caught off guard, and I’m proud of my mamita for making the Bad Man recoil. She hits his shoulder with her body as she passes, hard, pointedly. Then she grabs the back door and flings it open. Before the man can react, she’s outside.

At last he stands up. He pauses, stares at me a long while. I don’t like the look in his eyes.

“What’s your name, girl?”

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I am still shaking too hard.

My mother calls from outside.

He gives me a final glance, then moves for the doorway. “Stupid girl,” he mutters.

I’m holding the dish towel. Alone now in the kitchen, I stare at it, wish I had something to dry. Wish the night would go backward and I could be sitting at the table, grating cheese and listening to my mother hum.

Then, more noises. The man, his voice angry and booming.

My mother. No, she says, over and over. Defiant, then stubborn, then pleading. A crack, a smack. I flinch. I know those sounds. He hit her. She speaks again, but her voice is so low I can barely hear it. I just recognize the tone. Broken. The Bad Man has hurt her, and my mamita is broken.

The angry voices stop. Everything stops. The silence scares me worse.

We are a pack. We have only each other. We must take care.

I carefully step down from the stool. I walk to the open doorway. I head outside.

My mother is on her knees. The man stands before her. He is holding something. A gun. He’s pointing a gun at my mother’s head.

I don’t think. I bolt. I race to my mother, a blur of little arms and little legs. I fly like the wind, I want to believe. I hurtle myself into her arms.

As my mother screams, “No! Get away! Run, chiquita, run!”

She throws me from her, even as I try to clutch her arms. She tosses me behind her. “Run,” she yells again. “Run!”

I see the tears pouring down her cheeks. I see the terror in her eyes.

I don’t run. I can’t.

I hold out my arms for my mother. We are two. We must take care—

The Bad Man pulls the trigger.