Chapter Twenty

On Friday nights, Flannigan’s closed anytime between midnight and two, depending on how busy it was. I announced last call at midnight and locked up just after one in the morning. Running around all day then working all night on my feet had me craving first a hot shower, then bed and sleep. Maybe I’d even get eight hours.

Fortunately, Villines gave credence to my theory and he was following up on it. He had been a jerk on the phone, but a lot of cops were like that—they didn’t want “civilians” to interfere with their job. But now that we’d met face-to-face, maybe he would ease off on the “leave this to the police” talk, and I was confident he would seek the truth.

All in all, a productive week.

I showered and collapsed in bed just after 2:00 a.m. I always slept in a tank top and boxers, but it was freezing, so I snuggled under my blankets and down comforter with a satisfied sigh. The only thing that would make tonight better was if I had a boyfriend to invite over. It had been a long time since I cared enough about someone to ask them to stay the night. Maybe I was picky, but that was okay. I might have asked Tomas Villines out, except I noticed the wedding band on his finger. He was attractive and smart, two big pluses in my book. But I didn’t poach.

I yawned, closed my eyes, thought about tomorrow. I’d check on Sophia and make sure she was okay after the interview with Detective Barrios. Call Villines with a friendly push, maybe see what my mom and Aunt Rita had been able to learn about the Diaz family and what they could do to help, once I helped clear Sergio. Maybe I was being naive about Sergio’s case, maybe his actions had mucked up the entire investigation and he would have this ding on his record forever, preventing him from getting custody of his siblings.

But I had to believe I could fix it.

I worked tomorrow night at Flannigan’s, then had Sunday off. I might even go to St. Dominic’s, Uncle Rafe’s church, before heading to my parents’ for Sunday dinner. I didn’t go to church every week, but Catholic guilt was a thing. Some stereotypes are there for a reason and I hadn’t been to Mass since...the Sunday after Christmas. Yikes, five weeks. Yeah, I needed to go.

I felt myself drifting off on that lovely plane where thoughts faded and sleep was within my grasp.

A loud explosion propelled me out of bed. My gun was in my hand—I didn’t even remember grabbing it off my nightstand. I blinked, and what I thought was a grenade or land mind—I’d heard my fair share of explosions during my time in the Army—wasn’t.

It was a shotgun blast and breaking glass. Someone was breaking in?

Almost without thinking, I slipped into my shoes, which I always had next to my bed—another habit left over from my years in the military. If there was broken glass, I didn’t want to step on it. Gun close to my side, I left my bedroom.

My phone was charging in the kitchen, but I suspected one of my neighbors had already called in the gunshot.

I heard a car screeching down the street, a crash, and more screeching tires.

I didn’t hear anyone breaking in, so I flipped on the lights, looked around.

No one was there.

But someone had shot out one of the two narrow block windows in my entryway. Glass littered the tile. A rock with a note tied around it had been left for me.

I didn’t have to touch it to read the threat in block letters:

BACK OFF. OR ELSE.

I gave a statement to the responding officers. I told them that I believed either Don Cruz or Javier Escobar—or both—had thrown the rock. I explained that Don had looked at my driver’s license and could have easily memorized my address, and Javier had seen me talking to Sophia Diaz and again at the Cactus Stop.

By the time I was done, I was exhausted and hoped I could sleep, even though it was now four thirty in the morning and I had a hole in my entry window. Then my brother Jack showed up on my doorstep looking both worried and angry.

“Why didn’t you call me?”

“You live in the middle of nowhere, could you have gotten here faster than the police?”

“You know what I mean.”

“How did you hear?”

“I used to work same shift as Vince Gorel, who was the responding officer. He called me. But you should have.”

“I’m fine,” I said.

Jack checked my house, inspected the window.

“The police drove through the neighborhood,” I said. “Whoever did this hit two parked cars when they were going around the corner. They’re going to process the paint, collect evidence. Plus, some of my neighbors have security cameras and they might get a license plate or something else identifiable on video. They were stupid to come after me here.”

“I’m staying.”

“The guest bed isn’t comfortable.”

“I know,” he grumbled and I laughed. Jack had stayed over a couple times when we were working on a house project. He was a good brother.

He hugged me. “I know you can take care of yourself, Margo, but that doesn’t mean I’m not going to worry about you.”

“Okay, Dad,” I said sarcastically.

He pinched my arm like he used to do when we were kids, and I slapped his arm.

“I’m going to try to sleep,” I said. I walked down the short hall as Jack headed to the den where I had a hide-a-bed for guests. “Jack?”

He looked over at me. “Hmm?”

“Thanks.”