A Place in the Wind

Book 4: Jimmy Vega Mystery

by Suzanne Chazin

Genres: Hispanic & Latino

Synopsis

The disappearance of a teenage girl in upstate New York sets off a powder keg of accusations, bigotry, and fear - with deadly results - in Suzanne Chazin's stunning new thriller featuring Hispanic police detective Jimmy Vega.

On a frigid, January night, a blond, blue-eyed high school girl walks out of an English class she tutors for immigrants - and vanishes. Suspicion quickly falls on the men she was teaching, many of whom are undocumented. As disturbing evidence trickles in, news of the incident spreads beyond the scenic town of Lake Holly, New York, unearthing deep-seated fears and enflaming cultural tensions.

For county police detective Jimmy Vega, the situation is personal. His girlfriend, Harvard-educated attorney Adele Figueroa, heads the immigrant center where the teen volunteer disappeared. If Vega can't find the girl soon and clear Adele's clients, the place of refuge may be forced to shut its doors. Still reeling over his own recent career missteps, Vega does his best to run interference between Adele and the local police. But when Vega's boss assigns him a grunt detail working for the new county supervisor, the man's political ambitions clash with Vega's deepest convictions. Vega can't imagine a worse turn of events - until he uncovers even darker forces at play. Someone wants to destroy far more than Vega's career. And no matter which way he turns, every step will put him and his family in the killer's crosshairs.

Release date: September 26, 2017

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 352

Sample

Teenagers don’t run away in January. Not in upstate New York.

In summer, they’ll go out drinking with friends, pass out in a field somewhere, wake up hungover and covered in mosquito bites. In the spring and fall, they’ll hop a train down to New York City after a fight with a parent or a problem at school. The Port Authority cops will pick them up, usually after a day or two when they discover that there really is no place to sleep in the city that never sleeps—and worse, no place to shower.

But a January disappearance was different. Jimmy Vega had only to look out at the early-morning ice sparkling on his windshield to understand that no teenager would choose to walk off into the blue-black heart of such a night as last night.

Especially not a girl like Catherine Archer.

He cranked up the heater in his pickup and palmed the sleep from his eyes. The teenager had been gone since ten p.m. yesterday. It was going on eight a.m. now. The sun held the sharp edge of promise through the bare trees as Vega drove into Lake Holly. But he knew it was just a tease. Sunny-side up for now. Over easy by midmorning. Hard-boiled by this afternoon. There was snow in the forecast. There was always snow in the forecast this time of year. Vega should be used to it by now. He was a native New Yorker. Bronx born. But the Puerto Rico of his parents’ youth still ran like a Gulf current through his veins. He wasn’t built for upstate New York winters.

He’d turned in early last night. His girlfriend, Adele Figueroa, had gone to see her nine-year-old’s choral concert at the elementary school. Vega also had parent duty last night. He took his eighteen-year-old out to the new Ethiopian restaurant. Paid forty bucks for what looked like two unrolled burritos. Joy loved it. Vega ended up raiding his refrigerator for a frozen pizza afterward. Joy suggested they take in the new Norwegian film at the art cinema, but Vega didn’t want to pay to see snow on film. He had enough of the real thing. So they called it an early night. He went back home and fell asleep on his couch with his mutt, Diablo, snoring beside him, then repeated the same routine on his bed. He’d planned to get up early this morning, lift weights and run at least five miles around the lake. He didn’t want anything to stand in the way of him going back to full duty.

That was before he got the seven a.m. call from Adele.

“Jimmy, I need your help. Something terrible has happened at La Casa.”

Vega was barely conscious, but the cop in him ran through all the possible scenarios in his head. A fistfight at the community center. A fire. A roof collapse. (Lord knows, the landlord was overdue fixing it.) An immigration raid. Adele always referred to the immigrants at La Casa as her “clients,” a holdover from her days as a criminal defense attorney. But everyone in and around Lake Holly knew that a large portion of the people she served were undocumented. Vega sometimes wondered why Adele ever mothballed her Harvard Law degree to found and run this struggling outreach center. Something was always going wrong.

“One of my volunteers is missing,” said Adele. “The police won’t tell me anything.”

Vega pictured the volunteers he normally saw at La Casa on weekdays when Adele was working—earnest, gray-haired men and women who sat patiently with circles of day laborers or young mothers and played English-language games or taught them useful phrases for their work. He couldn’t imagine any of those people venturing out on a Friday night in January, much less disappearing. The roads in and around Lake Holly were winding, narrow, and poorly lit. The ice just made things worse, especially for older people.

“You think they got into an accident?” asked Vega.

“No. Her car’s still here. In the parking lot. She never drove home. Jimmy, I’m not talking about one of my seniors. I’m talking about a seventeen-year-old girl. A student at Lake Holly High. Her family owns the Magnolia Inn.”

The 150-year-old mansion was a venerable landmark in Lake Holly. All the important people in the county ate there: Wall Street CEOs. U.S. presidents and senators. Broadway actors. Hollywood directors. The Archers, who had owned the place for generations, were like old-line royalty in Lake Holly.

“So this girl? She’s an Archer?” asked Vega.

“She’s John Archer’s daughter, Catherine.”

Vega got dressed and drove over to La Casa as quickly as he could. Not because he thought he could do anything. More for moral support. In all likelihood, the Lake Holly cops were doing all they could already to track Catherine down. And whether they were or they weren’t, there was no way they’d let a detective from the county police tell them how to do their jobs. Especially not some desk jockey who spent his days giving ink manicures to the steel-bracelet set.

Every cop in the county knew Vega’s story. And every one of them was glad it wasn’t his own.

The community center was housed in a former seafood wholesaler’s building that still smelled like low tide on damp days. It sat on a dead-end street across from an auto salvage yard, a propane company, and a janitorial cleaning service. A dozen or so people were gathered behind a blue police sawhorse at the entrance to the street, their breath clouded white in the early-morning air. Everything felt hushed and expectant—as if the ground beneath them could shatter at any moment. Beyond, Vega saw three police cruisers, a couple of unmarked detectives’ sedans, and the county crime-scene van.

Things were going from bad to worse if crime scene was here.

A uniformed cop Vega didn’t recognize stood behind the sawhorse, stamping his feet to keep warm while he spoke to the onlookers. Family members? Rubberneckers? They were bundled in hooded jackets, scarves, and hats, but Vega could still see their eyes—that jumpy, hyperalert, almost feral quality that Vega recognized as fear. Catherine’s parents were no doubt someplace warm, being cared for by loved ones. But these people—friends, family or neighbors—clearly had a stake in this girl’s disappearance.

Vega nosed his truck up to the sawhorse and powered down his window. He flashed his gold detective’s shield and ID at the officer. “Who’s catching?” he asked. He spoke like he belonged here. Not that he belonged anywhere much these days.

“Detectives Jankowski and Sanchez,” the cop answered. He frowned at Vega’s ID. “Did Lake Holly call in the county on this?”

Vega gestured to his department’s crime scene van, parked in front of La Casa. “Hey, not for nothing, the county’s already here.” Nothing like a little creative misdirection. Then, for good measure, he name-dropped. “Is Detective Greco working?”

“Everybody’s working this one.” The officer wiped his runny nose. He looked miserable standing point. Vega opened his center console and pulled out a package of chemical hand warmers. He always kept a few in the car in winter. He held them out to the cop.

“Here. You need these more than I do.”

“Thanks.” The officer pulled back the sawhorse. “No sense both of us freezing out here.”

Vega waved to the man and drove through. He parked his pickup next to the propane company. Across the street, La Casa’s parking lot was roped off with yellow crime-scene tape. A single car sat in the lot. A silver Subaru Forester. A sign across the front doors read: CERRADO HASTA NUEVO AVISO—CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.

Vega frowned at the security cameras mounted on the corners of the former warehouse. One was pointed at the front doors. Another was pointed at the parking lot. Their footage must have told the Lake Holly cops something about what time Catherine left the building and whom she’d left with. The temperatures last night were in the midthirties—reasonably balmy for upstate New York in January. But not the sort of weather that people hang around in. The teenager couldn’t have gone far on foot. Which meant she was either nearby—or she’d been picked up by another vehicle. The license plate readers in the area would be able to give the Lake Holly Police a readout of all makes, models, and car plates in the area last night at that time.

And yet, they hadn’t found her.

Surely by now, Catherine’s family and the police had canvassed her friends, the other students who were tutoring English last night at La Casa, and the immigrants who were being tutored. That should have provided another layer of knowledge. The more subtle kind. Not just movement but motive.

And yet, they hadn’t found her.

Vega stepped out of his truck and walked across to La Casa’s lot, where the silver Subaru Forester was parked. It appeared to be a recent model. No obvious dents. A sticker on the bumper read: PROUD PARENT OF A LAKE HOLLY HIGH SCHOOL HONORS STUDENT. Catherine didn’t put that on her car. Which meant the vehicle probably belonged to her parents. The car doors were open and two county crime-scene techs—a man and a woman—were combing the inside for clues. The woman crawled out as soon as she caught sight of Vega. She pulled down the hood of her white Tyvek coveralls and lifted her face mask. Jenn Fitzpatrick was the spitting image of her old man: round, freckled face, like a Cabbage Patch doll. Curly hair the color of spun maple syrup.

“You know, Jimmy, most people try to sneak out of a crime scene, not into one.”

“I’m not sneaking in.”

“Riiight. You just wanted to give the Lake Holly PD an early valentine.”

“C’mon, Jenn. I’m just trying to get some answers. Is Adele inside?”

Jenn nodded. “With two local detectives. Who aren’t going to be thrilled to see you. My father used to say that crossing jurisdictions is like dating somebody else’s girl.”

Vega grinned. “Knowing Captain Billy, I’d say the analogy was a bit coarser than that.”

Jenn laughed. “Yes. It probably was.”

“Have you found anything so far?”

“The car was pretty clean. Not even the usual candy bars and junk.” She tilted her head toward the building. “Not for nothing, Jimmy, you have enough troubles with the department right now. You don’t need to buy more.”

“I’ll keep a low profile, I promise. But can you let me know if you find anything?”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Thanks.” He turned to walk inside.

“I almost forgot,” said Jenn. “Break a leg tonight.”

Vega stopped in his tracks. “Tonight?”

“Your gig? At the Oyster Club?” Jenn gestured to her white coveralls. “I’m bummed I have to work, so I’m going to miss it.”

“The . . . Oyster Club. Sure.” Vega had been so caught up in Adele’s dilemma, he’d completely forgotten that his band had a gig tonight. At a sleek new waterfront bar south of here in Port Carroll. Jenn’s boyfriend, Richie Solero, was the band’s drummer. Armado, they called themselves. Spanish for “armed.” All the band members were in law enforcement. Which meant half their gigs expected them to double as unpaid security and the other half worried they were undercover narcs. Being a cop never elicited a neutral response.

“You are going, aren’t you?” Jenn must have read the uncertainty in Vega’s eyes. “Christ, Jimmy, you can’t back out. You’re Armado’s lead vocalist. Their lead guitarist. It took Richie and Danny, like, six months to get the band booked there. You go AWOL, you’ll let everybody down.”

“I know, I just . . .” I can’t leave Adele like this to go play guitar with a bunch of cops. “Maybe Catherine will show up before then.”

“She’s been gone ten hours,” said Jenn. “I think you need a Plan B.”

La Casa was usually bustling on a Saturday morning. In the front room, there were typically English and computer classes for adults and tutoring for their school-age children. In the back, people shot pool, drank coffee, met in self-help groups, or just relaxed and chatted in the one place that welcomed them in their own tongue and never asked why they were here.

There was none of that today. The computers sat idle. The chalkboards were bare. The pool tables stood empty and silent. Vega could hear Adele’s voice coming from the tiny conference room down the hall. He started to head in that direction when he caught sight of two men in off-the-rack sports coats and identical bad buzz cuts. The Lake Holly detectives, Jankowski and Sanchez. Both men were square in every direction: the face, the shoulders, the torso. The taller one was white with dark brown hair, silver at the tips like a hedgehog. All his features were scrunched up in the middle of his big square face: tiny pale eyes, a slash of lips, a nose that zigzagged unevenly between them. When Vega was a boy, he used to press Silly Putty to the newspaper, then stretch and compress the photos he peeled off. Jankowski’s face looked like the compressed version.

The shorter one was Sanchez. Same square build, though with a broad nose and thick black eyebrows. The Silly Putty when you pulled it sideways. Both men wore hip holsters under their dark suit jackets. Jankowski must be a lefty, judging by which side his jacket bulged out. They gave Vega that cop stare as he approached. Like junkyard dogs just itching to take a bite out of him. Vega pulled out his badge and ID and thrust it in front of him like it was some force field that could shield him from their wrath.

“We didn’t send county an invite,” growled Jankowski. “And if we did, it wouldn’t be you.”

Everywhere Vega went, his reputation preceded him. He wondered if he’d ever live down that incident last December. He spread his palms in a gesture of surrender.

“C’mon, guys. I’m just looking for a little information. Cop-to-cop.” Vega decided to hold off mentioning Adele for as long as possible. As the head of a community outreach center that serviced both legal and undocumented immigrants, she was not a favorite of the local police.

Jankowski braced an arm against one of the cinderblock walls. He looked as if he could knock down the whole wall if he had a mind to. All of Vega’s running and weight lifting would never take him up to the size and build of a monster like Jankowski. Sanchez, the compact model of the same vintage, closed in on Vega from the other direction. They were like bookends—physically and mentally.

“What’s the matter?” asked Sanchez. “You don’t trust we can do the job?”

“You kidding me?” asked Vega. “The Lake Holly PD is first class.” An ego stroke. No county cop thought any of the townie patrols could catch a cold without them. “I worked a couple of cases with one of your guys. Good friend of mine, Louie Greco?”

“Greco invited you here?” asked Jankowski.

“Not . . . exactly.” Vega regretted pulling his friend into the mix. He didn’t want to create the impression that Greco was meddling. “Adele Figueroa gave me a call. She’s my, uh . . .” Vega hated the word as much as Adele did. It made them sound like two teenagers. “. . . girlfriend.”

Vega directed his words to Sanchez. A fellow Latino. A Mexican American, according to Adele, though she had no particular love for him. She felt that most cops were the same once they put on the uniform. Maybe she was right. Sanchez didn’t appear moved by Vega’s dilemma.

“The best way you can help right now,” Sanchez told Vega, “is to get Adele to assemble better records on the clients who pass through her doors.”

“This place has more fake IDs than a college bar,” Jankowski grunted.

“She has intake sheets,” said Vega. “I know she asks every client who comes into La Casa to fill one out.”

“We looked at those sheets already,” said Jankowski. “I could train my dog on them, that’s how worthless they are. There were twenty-eight men being tutored at La Casa last night. Do you know how many checked out cleanly through our criminal and immigration databases? Five. Twenty-eight people, and only five were who they said they were.”

Vega wasn’t surprised. He’d heard the same from cops down in Port Carroll and Warburton and other towns in the county with large immigrant populations.

“How about their addresses?” asked Vega. “Were they also bogus?”

“We found five more guys at the addresses they listed, but they couldn’t provide us with any verification of their legal names,” said Sanchez. “The remaining eighteen are ghosts. All we’ve got to go on are the head shots in Adele’s computer and word of mouth on the street.”

Vega cursed under his breath. He understood the detectives’ frustration. It was a never-ending struggle to get a full legal name from an undocumented immigrant. There was a host of reasons why. Some were relatively benign. The person lived under a fake ID or a relative’s ID to secure work or open a bank account. Others were not—like hiding a criminal conviction or a prior deportation. Not that Adele could have done anything about it. Even Vega, as a police officer, had to have probable cause to verify someone’s ID.

“Maybe you can track down their identities through family connections,” Vega suggested. “A lot of these people are probably local, even if their names and addresses don’t check out.”

“Yeah, but we’re racing against time here,” said Jankowski. “None of Catherine’s family or friends have seen her since ten last night. We haven’t been able to locate a signal from her cell phone. And now, on top of everything, we don’t even know who these people are that she was tutoring.” Jankowski’s features scrunched up so tight, he looked like the before shot on an ex-lax ad. “I mean, no offense to the Hispanic community. But Mike Carp is right. This whole illegal thing has gotten way out of hand.”

Mike Carp. The billionaire developer who won election to county executive in November by promising to reduce the number of undocumented immigrants in the region. Adele openly campaigned against him—as did everyone in the Latino community. Vega felt queasy thinking about how Carp might use this girl’s disappearance to drum up supporters. He had plenty already. There were rumors he was just keeping the county exec seat warm as a dress rehearsal until his run for governor in two years.

“You seem a little sure that one of La Casa’s clients is behind this,” said Vega. “You got some evidence besides the fact that this was the last place Catherine was seen?”

“Not yet,” said Jankowski. “Still, a beautiful girl like that disappears from a place like this without a trace, what would you think?”

“I haven’t seen a picture of her,” said Vega. “Do you have one?”

Sanchez pulled out his cell phone and scrolled to a picture on the screen. He handed his phone to Vega. “This is her last yearbook photo.”

Vega stared at the screen. Catherine Archer was the girl that teenage boys everywhere conjure up in their wet dreams and first flushes of hormonal glory. It wasn’t just the way her straight blond hair spilled like water down her back. Or the pale, bleached-denim hue of her eyes. Or the slight slouch to her narrow shoulders that suggested more child than woman about her. It was her smile. A small press of the lips that felt shy and hesitant yet welcoming. Vega could recall himself as a teenager—pimply and lacking confidence. A dark-skinned Puerto Rican kid in a high school full of sharp-edged Nordic beauties who treated him, like the janitor, or at best, like an exotic pet. It was the smile he would have fixated on and lusted over. The forgiveness in it for the anxieties of a clueless boy who didn’t feel he could ever fit in.

Vega handed Sanchez’s phone back to him. “And her friends?” Vega asked the two detectives. “Are they the jocks? The school druggies? The popular crowd?”

“All. None,” said Jankowski.

“Huh?” Vega wasn’t following.

“Everybody liked her,” he explained. “But we can’t find a best friend or close circle of friends.”

“Really?” That surprised Vega. From his experience with his own daughter, girls dropped boyfriends like banana peels. But they always had at least one or two besties on their speed dial.

“She was an honors student. A varsity tennis player. A volunteer English tutor.” Sanchez ticked off her accomplishments on his stubby fingers like he was putting together a college admissions packet for her. “But she didn’t socialize after school with any of the kids we spoke to, not even the other students who volunteered at La Casa.”

“She was shy? Socially awkward?”

“On the contrary,” said Jankowski. “Everyone describes her as very friendly. But she kept to herself, mostly helping out at her parents’ restaurant and hanging with her family.”

“No boyfriend?”

“None that anybody was aware of.”

“So you’re back to the twenty-eight men in this center last night,” said Vega.

“Yep.”

It was after eight a.m. Catherine Archer had been missing ten hours. They all knew that if someone was likely to be found alive, it usually happened in the first twenty-four hours. The golden twenty-four. Every second counted.

One of the uniforms appeared at Jankowski’s elbow to speak to him. Jankowski turned to Vega. “Tell Adele nobody’s on a witch hunt, much as she’d like to believe otherwise. But we’ve got a girl to find. La Casa is ground zero—and we’re running out of time.”

Wil Martinez awoke with his cheek pressed against his textbook, the pages smooth and cool on his skin, the subheading, Measurement of Helical Pitch in DNA, swimming around in his brain. Swimming right beside orders to clear table twelve and clean up the shards of broken glass at table seven. By day, he was one person. By night, another.

He wasn’t sure who the real Wil was anymore.

He squinted at his watch still strapped to his wrist. Seven a.m. A pale, milky light drifted in through the dark blue bedsheet covering the window. Slowly the attic room the nineteen-year-old shared with his brother came into focus. The bunk bed that sagged and creaked with every shift of their weight. The soft hum of the mini fridge with its hot plate and coffeemaker on top. The scrape of bare branches against the roof’s uninsulated rafters. The steady drip of a leaky showerhead down the hall—the one bathroom shared by all the upstairs tenants.

It was cold in the room. Wil felt the bite of the air on the tip of his nose. He forced his feet off the top bunk to the bare plank floor and dressed in as many layers as he could throw on. Socks. Sweatpants. Thermal shirt. Hoodie. He poked at the lump on the bottom bunk beneath a tangle of blankets.

“Get up, Rolando.”

“No me jódas!” Rolando cursed at Wil. He pulled the blankets over his head and turned his body to the wall. His bedsprings squeaked in response.

“Come on, Rolando,” Wil pleaded in Spanish. “You’ve got to get up for work.”

“Do you have to be so loud?”

“Do you have to be so hungover?”

Rolando sat up, hit his head on the upper bunk, cursed in English and Spanish, and flopped back down on his pillow. He stared up at the sharp coils that had just assaulted him and massaged his black wavy hair that was standing up at every angle. There was dirt under his fingernails and dark smears across his unshaven face and army-green T-shirt. “Never again,” he rasped in Spanish.

“You say that every time.”

“No. I mean it this time, chaparro.” Slang for “shorty” or “squirt.” Rolando’s nickname for Wil, ever since their days in Guatemala. Rolando was Wil’s protector back then, his mother’s firstborn, before Wil’s father ever stepped into the picture. Rolando was nine years older than Wil, a rangy, good-looking boy with the speed and grace of a Jaguar. He was twenty-eight now, though at this minute, he looked more like a man pushing forty.

Wil sat down on the edge of his half brother’s bunk. The thin mattress dipped into the frame. Rolando winced—from the screech or the movement, Wil couldn’t be sure.

“You were supposed to come straight home from La Casa last night,” Wil said to him.

“I know.”

“Where did you go? You didn’t answer your phone.”

“I didn’t hear it.”

More likely ignored it, thought Wil. He should have read the signs before Rolando went out Friday evening. The way he paced the floor and checked his messages nineteen times. The way he grunted out replies to Wil’s questions. It was how he always got when the pressure built. Antsy. Distracted. As a boy, he’d been gentle and shy and infinitely patient. But that was before that day in the freight yard. Before those six weeks when no one knew where he was. All these years later, and Rolando still never spoke about that time. It came out in other ways. When the shy and gentle boy Wil once loved gave way to the other Rolando.

The dangerous one.

“So what happened?” asked Wil. “Did you even go to English class?”

“I . . . went.” Rolando answered like he was dredging up the memory from ten years ago instead of last night.

“And then you got drunk.”

“I . . . had a few beers.”

“A few beers? You woke up everybody in the house when you came home. The other tenants are mad. The landlord threatened to throw us out if this keeps up. Lando, it’s January. I’m stressed-out enough.”

“About what? School?” Rolando’s dark, hooded eyes turned sober and focused. He grabbed Wil’s hand. He was obsessed with his little brother staying in school. Wil was the first person in their family to finish high school. And now, Rolando bragged to everyone he knew that Wil was a freshman at the community college studying to become a doctor. In Rolando’s mind, Wil’s here-and-there college credits that he gathered while holding down a full-time job were going to magically make him an MD. Rolando had no concept what a long and uncertain journey that was likely to be. Especially with Wil’s status.

“School’s going okay,” Wil assured him. “I’ve just got a lot on my mind.”

“Mami? Money?” Those were the usual concerns. “Last night was the last time, I promise,” said Rolando. “I’ll work double shifts. Skip meals. Whatever you need, chaparro. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of everything. You just concentrate on school. That’s all that matters.”

Not anymore.

Rolando swung his legs out of bed and cradled his head in his hands. He probably had a monster of a headache. He felt around his neck and cursed. “I think I lost Mami’s religious medal.”

“What?” Wil pushed himself off his brother’s bed. “Where did you leave it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Think, Lando. Think.” That necklace was the one part of their mother the men in jackboots and flak vests hadn’t taken away when they came for her three years ago.

Wil knelt down on the bare plank floor and pawed through the jumble of clothes his brother had worn last night. Rolando’s jeans and jacket were covered in sticky pine needles and dead leaves. His sweatshirt reeked of alcohol and the faint odor of sweat and vomit. Wil didn’t see the gold chain or medallion. He wanted to cry.

“Lando, how could you?”

Rolando raked a hand through his unwashed hair. His eyes had a glazed look, as if he were trying to hold on to the edges of a dream that was floating away. He’d been babbling like a lunatic last night. His words and thoughts had been like stray sentences chosen at random from a book.

Wil wished he’d asked Lando then about Mami’s religious medal. But he wasn’t sure he’d have understood anything his brother said anyway. When Lando was like that, he mixed events with hallucinations, actions with desires. Everything he said or did was unpredictable. Even downright scary. Lando had awoken from blackouts next to women he didn’t know, with injuries he couldn’t recall getting. Last year, he walked home with a deep stab wound on his thigh that had missed his femoral artery by an inch. He told the doctor in the emergency room that it was an accident. Self-inflicted. Wil was sure it wasn’t.

“Hurry up and get that medical degree,” Rolando had teased Wil when he was feeling better. “I need you to be able to stitch me up.”

Wil never mentioned the knife he’d pulled out of his brother’s coat pocket afterward. Or the blood smears on the blade that may or may not have been his.

Rolando would need more than a doctor to save him from his messes.

Wil laced his feet into sneakers and shrugged into his jacket. A faded green parka two sizes too big for his frame. The stuffing was coming out of the quilting. He looked like a molting goose. He had to bike to the library this morning and get in several hours of studying before heading over to the Lake Holly Grill to start his shift. But first, he needed to catch the bathroom when it was empty and brush his teeth.

He walked over to the window and drew back the dark blue bedsheet. Daylight flooded in. Rolando threw a heavily-tattooed arm across his eyes.

“Ay, the sun is so bright.”

“You’ll feel better if you move around.”

Wil’s toothbrush was on a shelf by the window. Through the double-hung panes of glass, Wil could see the square of cement yard in back, halfway covered in snow and rimmed in chain-link fencing. Beyond the fence were rails of track. Every night, the trains chug-chugged through his sleep, pulling his memories back to that freight yard in Mexico where his mother hitched their dreams to the beast that carried him north, forever leaving behind the Guatemala of his childhood.

Rolando scoured the floor for a semiclean shirt. He pulled off the one he was wearing and slipped into the