EIGHT

The following day at around eight a.m., Sola walked to her neighborhood market with a grocery list her vovó had insisted be filled. It was good to feel like there was something she had to do. Something that was normal and uncomplicated, but necessary nonetheless.

Distraction was key. Otherwise, she was going to start packing and head for Caldwell.

Which would be a really stupid idea.

Entering the store, which had as much in common with a Walmart as a horse and buggy had with rush-hour traffic, she was embraced by her heritage. In the cramped little space, all the aisle markers, the price listings, and the labels were in Spanish. Overhead, Latin music murmured softly, more like a pleasing scent in the air than anything registering in the ear. And the patrons all had dark hair, dark eyes, and tanned skin like her.

Well, she would have had dark hair without the dye job. God, she hated the blond. Next month, she was going as a redhead, damn it.

Checking the list, she read her grandmother’s scribbles as if they were her own, the quirky construction of the vowels and consonants indecipherable to others, easy for her.

She was going to need—

Habaneros…locotos…pequins? And a ghost pepper—which you could get here even though it was of Indian derivation rather than South American?

Was her grandmother trying to kill her through capsaicin?

“I saved you some plantains,” a male voice said in Spanish.

Sola glanced over her shoulder and forced a smile. The guy coming up to her was holding what seemed like—yes, actually, they were a really good-looking lot of plantains, and they were on her list, too.

“Thanks,” she replied.

“I will get you a basket.” He hurried over to a stack of them by the door, popping free the top one. “Here.”

As he held out the yellow plastic holder with its double handles, Sola pulled the bill of her baseball cap down lower. It wasn’t that he was skeevy. He was a nice young Latino guy, who had a gold cross around his neck, friendly eyes with thick lashes, and a good shave and haircut. He had probably lived in this neighborhood his whole life, and either his father or his uncle or maybe a cousin owned this business. Naturally, he was looking to get married and have kids with a nice Latina girl because that was what the women in his family would be pushing him to do. And undoubtedly, he would take over the running of the shop after the generation above him passed.

There was absolutely nothing controversial, scary, or threatening about him. And he was staring at her with respect—and hope.

You have no idea who I am, she thought.

Sola accepted the basket. “Thank you.” What she wanted to say was, Stop it. “But you don’t need to save things for me.”

“You always buy them on Tuesdays.”

Did she? She needed to fix that. Predictable habits were bad news for the likes of her.

“I’ll just find what’s on my list and get going.”

As the screen door creaked and banged with another entry, she measured the man who came in. Forty. Loose jacket. Dark sunglasses. Could have been law enforcement. Or a drug dealer. Or a regular Joe getting his lunch on the way to his work.

“Can I help you with what you need?” The supermarket guy nodded down at her slip of paper. “If you want me to ever bring you things, I can do that, too. We have a delivery service.”

“No, I’m good. Thanks.”

Loose Jacket Man walked by without seeming to notice her or check her ass when he thought she wasn’t looking. But that didn’t mean anything. Maybe this was Benloise’s crew finally catching up with her.

Sola fell into step a little distance behind him and watched the fall of that jacket, looking for signs of a shoulder holster. When he paused by a display, she popped her list up and re-traced her grandmother’s writing with her eyes. Perfect timing—she was in the canned-tomato aisle.

When the man continued on without pulling anything off a shelf, she resumed the trail.

He ended up in the refrigerator section, grabbing two pre-made, microwavable chicken tortillas and a Coke. He left money next the register, calling out to her friend with the baskets and the plantains in Spanish. Then he was gone.

She took no deep breath of relief and there was no easing of her tension.

This was life now. Anywhere she went.

Doubling back, because she had missed a lot of stuff during her skulk, she got everything and then went to check out at the counter. The young guy came over and first processed the man’s lunch purchase; then he started scanning in bar codes, moving the boxes, cans, and cartons, over the reader.

“We have a lot of regulars,” he said. “My pop, he owns this place, can remember their fathers and grandfathers.”

“Loyalty is good.”

“We’re getting more and more new faces, though. People are moving in from other places.” He looked up with a smile as if he were hoping she would fill in her particular blank. “Where are you from originally?”

“Nowhere.” She got out her billfold and tried to estimate how much it would be. “I’m not from anywhere.”

“I was born here, but my parents, they came over from Cuba. Oh—I have a coupon for these.” He leaned down under the counter—

And she went for her gun, tucking her hand into her jacket.

Stopping that instinct before she blew his head off, she forced herself to keep in control. And sure enough, he popped up with a battered old folder full of colorful flyers, instead of a weapon.

“It’s okay,” she said as he started going through the pages. “Really.”

He glanced up. “I’d like to help.”

“I’m kind of in a hurry.”

“Oh. Okay.” He shrugged and put the thing away. “Busy day ahead?”

She made a show of inspecting the lottery-ticket selections behind him, the rolls of tickets lolling out of their vertical slots like dog tongues in August. “Have you ever sold a winner?”

He nodded and smiled. “We had fifty dollars last week.”

“Outstanding.”

When everything had been added up, she pushed her money at him and bagged for herself as he made change. Then she was out of there with a quick bye.

She was going to have to find another place to shop, and that sucked because his market was so close and had really good—well, plantains, among other things.

On the street with her plastic bags of her vovó’s list, she walked fast, searching the faces of every person who came toward her as well as the pedestrians across the street and those behind her. There was no fear for her, though. No paranoia, either.

Okay, fine, maybe there was a little paranoia. Bottom line, she was living out that last scene of The Sopranos, waiting, waiting, for the end to come from an unexpected angle—only there was no Journey soundtrack and she had a better hairline than Tony had had. Waistline, too.

Going back to Caldwell was not going to help any of this reality, she reminded herself. The people who were after her weren’t going to grant her a mercy pass because she was up there on a humanitarian mission. They were going to look at her conscience as a stroke of luck for them.

Assuming they hadn’t found her already and only had yet to reveal themselves.

By the time she stepped out of her building’s elevator on the fifth floor, she was feeling no better about anything. Not Assail. Not the shadows still thrown by the life she had lived. Not—

As she opened the door to the condo, she stopped and cursed.

There was a suitcase by the armchair that had been briefly relocated earlier. As well as a duffle bag, a pair of winter coats, two sets of gloves and scarves, and her grandmother’s pocketbook.

“Vovó,” she groaned.

Her grandmother came out of the back, where the bedrooms were. “We go now. Drive through. Get there eight tomorrow morning if we no stop.”

“No.”

“You right. Closer to ten.”

Her grandmother had changed out of her housecoat and was in one of her handmade dresses. She even had hose and short-heeled pumps on. Her hair had been curled and sprayed, looking like a washed-out version of Sally Field’s Steel Magnolias brown football helmet, and yes, there was lipstick involved.

“This is not a good idea, Vovó.” Sola let the door close itself behind her. “It’s not safe in Caldwell.”

“They will keep us safe.”

Sola looked around the condo, taking in all of the anonymity. Then she stared at her grandmother with hard eyes. “You know what kind of man Assail is. You know his business.”

“And.”

As those old eyes glared right back at her, she wanted to curse some more. But she knew better. And she should have known “criminals” and “against-the-law” were relative terms to her vovó. The woman had a long history with people who were less than on the up-and-up.

Make that loved ones who were not all that law-abiding.

Fine, time to bring out the big guns, Sola thought.

“He’s not Catholic.”

“He will convert.”

“Vovó.” She shook her head. “You need to stop this. Even if we help him—and honestly, what can I do for someone who’s terminal?—he and I are not going to get married or anything.”

“We go now. Why we talking?”

The old woman bent down, draped her winter coat over her arm, and picked up her pocketbook.

Jesus, Sola thought. Now she knew what people had to deal with when they crossed her: Brick. Frickin’. Wall.

She closed her eyes. “I made a vow to God. I promised Him, if He saved me, if I got to see you again, I would leave…that life…forever.”

“Assail, I called. I called him that night when you were taken. He came when I needed him. God brought you back to me through him. So now we go. We help who helped us. That is the way.”

Sola shifted the plastic bags of groceries around to relieve the pinching of her hands and fingers. When that didn’t help, she put the weights down on the floor.

“I don’t know if I can protect you up there. Or protect myself.”

“And I say they will take care of us.”

Will you forgive me, Vovó, she wondered. If something goes wrong, will you forgive me?

Will I forgive myself?

“You are all that matters,” Sola said hoarsely.

Her grandmother came forward. “We will go. It is God’s way.”

“How do you know that?”

The smile that came back at her was old, and wise, and very beautiful. “I, too, prayed. To the Virgin Mary. I prayed you see Assail again, and then God sent those men to our house last night. We will leave now. Come.”

With that, her grandmother, who not only had no driver’s license, but couldn’t reach the pedals on anything other than a tricycle, headed for the door.

“Bring the groceries with the suitcases, Sola” was the command over her shoulder.