Southtown (Tres Navarre #5)(34)

“Wherever you want to go,” he said. “The seashore. Wherever. I’l give you money. You’re free to leave me.”

She grabbed his wrist, moved his hand to her bel y, warm and slightly swol en under the cotton dress. She said, “That wouldn’t be a good idea, mi amor.”

Somewhere in the middle of a long kiss, he final y understood what she was saying, and the knowledge terrified him.

It was months before Barrow and Barrera found him again. Long enough for Wil to lower his guard, and believe that they had forgotten about him. Long enough for him to come to terms with his fear, and believe that Soledad might be his salvation.

Eight years later, the museum hadn’t changed. The towers were stil there, the skywalk and the glass entrance.

An idea started to form in Wil ’s mind. An idea that had some justice to it.

He got out of the car, ignoring Pablo’s protests.

He walked to the entrance. It was the middle of the day, but the sign said CLOSED.

Inside, he saw shattered windows in the back of the entrance hal , tables covered in plastic. He tried the doors. They were locked.

Wil knocked on the glass, knowing he was taking an absurd chance. But no one expected him here. No one would think to look for Wil Stirman at an art museum.

Final y a guard came up and frowned at him.

The patch on the guard’s uniform said I-Tech. Sam Barrera’s company stil held the security contract.

Good.

The guard unlocked the door, cracked it open. He kept one hand on his holster. “We’re closed, sir.”

Stirman said, “Why?”

“Flood damage.”

The guard said it like it should be obvious. The broken windows. Plastic covering the patio tables. Pools of water on the tile floor.

Perfect.

What had Sam Barrera told him, when he cal ed to set up the meeting, eight years ago? It’ll be a private place to talk. Secure. Hell, I own the security.

Wil smiled apologetical y at the guard. “Okay. Sorry.”

The guard locked the door. He stood at the glass, his hand stil on his holster as Wil walked back to his car.

Pablo waited on the hood of the car, trying to ignore the rain.

He wanted to throw the phone across the museum parking lot. He’d just heard from their man watching Erainya Manos, and the last thing he wanted was to share the news with Stirman.

It had been bad enough, dealing with a private investigator. It brought back too many memories of his big mistake—the stranger he’d found in Angelina’s bedroom, four and a half years ago.

So far, Pablo had resisted the urge to cal his wife. He needed to be on the plane first, on his way to Mexico. He just hoped Angelina had read his letters from jail, and understood his veiled directions about what she should do if he ever got free.

But what if she’d burned the letters? He kept thinking about the look on her face the night he came home with the shotgun.

In the month or so leading up to that night, she’d acted cagey, nervous. Money had vanished from their checking account without explanation, and they never had any extra money to spend. She would go out and tel him she was visiting a sick friend, or seeing a doctor—little excuses that didn’t add up.

At first Pablo was too bewildered to be angry. He was used to Angelina depending on him for everything.

She’d come to the country il egal y years before, gotten separated from the rest of her family in transit, when they’d run into some vigilante ranchers in the high desert. She had only Pablo, who’d given her citizenship through marriage, a good home, al the love she could want. She would never betray him.

Then his next-door neighbor told him about the man who was visiting her while Pablo was at work—twice he’d come to see her, over the last week.

And when Pablo had walked in that last night, and found the man talking with her on their bed—on his bed . . .

Angelina had looked up, and screamed at Pablo to stop.

He would give anything to take back those few seconds, as the man rose to face him, and Pablo’s finger found the trigger.

“Yo, amigo. Wake up.”

Stirman’s presence jarred Pablo out of his thoughts.

“What’s wrong?” Stirman demanded.

“Bad news,” Pablo managed to say.

He told Stirman about their private eye, who had fol owed Erainya Manos out of town that morning. She’d taken I-35 north—her and her boy, Jem.

“Running?” Stirman asked.

“No. She came back.”

“Where did she go in Austin, then?”

Pablo shifted uncomfortably. “Our guy lost her when she turned off on Ben White. He missed the exit, never found her again. He drove back to San Antonio and sat on her house, in case she came back. She did—a few minutes ago. Without the boy.”

Pablo saw the rage building in Stirman’s face.

They both knew what the PI’s news meant. Erainya Manos had hidden her son. She was trying to protect him, insulate him from danger, which meant she probably wasn’t going to cooperate. She would try to double-cross them.

“The woman is a problem,” Stirman decided.

“She’s stil got twenty-four hours,” Pablo said halfheartedly. The last thing he wanted was another death, especial y a woman’s. “Maybe she’l come through. We just got to stay low and wait.”