Mission Road (Tres Navarre #6)(73)

“She didn’t tell anyone that White raped her.”

“No. I’m not sure she even knew who White was at first, but she would’ve found out. He was on the rise. He was getting a reputation as a man you didn’t cross. She would’ve had no choice except to stay quiet.”

“She kept you.”

“She kept me.”

“White never knew?”

Ana gazed down at the photo of her grandparents. “My mother tried to avoid Guy White after she became a cop. The sad thing was—I don’t think he even remembered her. I’m sure I never occurred to him.”

“Your mother told Etch about the rape,” Maia guessed, “once they got to be friends.”

“They were more than friends,” Ana corrected. “But, yes. She must have. Etch loved her. For him, I was always a reminder of what White had done to her.”

“And when Frankie White started victimizing women just as his father had—”

“It brought back all my mother’s worst memories. She was a wreck. Her drinking got worse. I didn’t know why at the time. Now, it makes sense. When I started looking into the Franklin White murder, I thought I understood. Etch had killed Frankie, out of revenge for my mother. He loved her. He hated what Guy White had done to her. I figured my mother had committed suicide with alcohol because she knew what Etch had done, and that knowledge was killing her. It wasn’t until Etch shot me . . . Something in his eyes told me I’d put the case together wrong.”

“So you know.”

Ana stared at the ceiling. Her heart monitor beeped steadily. “My mother killed Frankie White. She had the patrol car. The area Frankie cruised was on the way from her house to the Pig Stand. She must’ve pulled Frankie over. He must’ve said . . . something. I don’t know. He grabbed her, enough to scratch her. It must’ve brought back the rape, years of anger and fear she couldn’t share with anyone. She lost control.”

“And Hernandez covered for her.”

Ana closed the photo album. “For years. Too perfectly. He protected her reputation so well she never got help. But it was my fault, too. I was afraid. I couldn’t stand what was happening to her. I stayed away, and she died without me there.”

Maia took DeLeon’s hand. It felt as warm and fragile as a bird. “Your mother wouldn’t blame you.”

“I don’t know. I hope not. She raised me alone, and . . . she was good to me. But distant. Terrified of love. I was so determined not to repeat her mistakes, when I met Ralph . . .”

Maia felt the fissure opening inside her again. She could only imagine how bad it was for Ana—Ralph’s absence a gaping canyon, every word, every thought a walk along the precipice.

“What will you do?” Maia asked.

“Medical leave. Six months. I’m taking it all to be with Lucia.”

Maia had to do a momentary mental shift to remember which Lucia Ana was referring to. “You could retire with full pay, full benefits.”

Ana shook her head. “I’m going back to the job. I have to. It’s part of me.”

“And Ralph’s shops?”

“I’m keeping them,” Ana said with no hesitation. “Some of Ralph’s cousins have offered to help out. But I think . . . I think that’s what Ralph would’ve wanted. He worked so hard for so many years. I don’t think he ever wanted the shops to leave the family.”

Maia felt dizzy thinking about the challenges Ana was facing. Guilt pressed against her ribs.

And yet Ana sounded strangely confident. She would have enough money. She’d be surrounded by Ralph’s relatives whether she liked it or not—all the cousins and nephews and siblings Ralph had quietly helped over the years, now taking Ana as one of their own, another 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.”