The Thief
“I’m glad you’re going to be okay,” she said after a long moment.
Will you stay, he thought as he put his hands lightly on her hips. Will you still stay with me?
He kept those questions to himself. He was too afraid of the answers.
* * *
—
God was so odd.
As Sola stood in front of Assail, she thought she probably needed to rephrase that, even though it rhymed. After all, she had prayed at that mass for just this kind of break in the bad news, had hoped for this unbelievable outcome, this reprieve.
But instead of jumping for joy, she was left off-kilter and feeling betrayed. Part of her told her to get off her high horse and understand Assail’s and his cousins’ point of view. The other half, though, was feeling manipulated.
“I hate that you’ve put me in this position.”
He nodded. “Myself as well.”
“So I guess I should just go home.”
“Your home is not Miami and you know it.”
“It’s not Caldwell, either,” she countered. “I’ve been here for ten years, and you know something—they’ve all sucked. Which is a helluva commentary considering how bad the decade before this was.”
“Your grandmother is your home. Wherever she is, you are at your place of residence.”
Damn you, she thought. For knowing me.
“Marisol, I am out of the life. I am as free as you are. I would like to start a new chapter—anywhere. Miami, Caldwell, overseas. Like you, my home is where another is, not specific to any particular zip code.”
As he stared up at her, his moonlight eyes were steady and sad.
“So you’re at home with your cousins.” She took a step away from him. “Wherever they are you—”
“Don’t be daft. This is naught to do with them.”
“Watch your tone. You are not in a position to get pushy.”
“I can protect you. My cousins and I are a safer bet for the two of you, and well you know it.”
Sola narrowed her stare on him. “I’ve been doing a pretty good goddamn job on my own.”
“Are you willing to gamble your life on that? Your grandmother’s? There is safety in numbers.”
“Do you really want me to stay with you only through self-interest?”
“Whatever it takes.”
She shook her head. “You have no pride.”
“Nope. None. Not when it comes to you.”
Sola went back over to the drapes that he wouldn’t let her open. Jesus, it was like living with a bunch of vampires in this house, everything buttoned up during the daylight hours. Then again, that was the way of drug dealers. Night owls, the lot of them.
Staring at the opaque fabric, because there was no looking through it, she tried on for size the idea of them moving around together as a pack, Assail, her grandmother, the two cousins, Markcus, herself.
Turning back to him, she looked at him for the longest time, weighing everything. He was right, there was strength in numbers. And he was still so weak, his body frail under the button-down that he’d tucked into those too-loose twill slacks.
In her mind, she heard him say that he was ashamed. Then she recalled when he had first opened his eyes to her and she had seen that the whites were all red…
Such suffering.
“Are you going to stay clean?” she demanded, even as she wondered how in the world she could trust any answer he gave to that.
“Yes. On my life, Marisol. I will never do any drug again—I have learned too well where that takes me.”
Shit, she thought.
After what felt like a lifetime, she shrugged. “I catch you lying to me or doing coke, and I’m leaving. I have no interest in enabling you, making excuses for you, or pretending I will spare you any kind of a backward glance. You have one chance and that is it. Are we clear?”
Pushing himself upright, he nodded immediately. “I understand and I accept this.”
“And she’s going to make you convert. My grandmother does not play—and you’re going to have to learn Spanish and/or Portuguese. She’ll teach you it whether you like it or not.”
“Marisol…”
When Assail’s voice cracked, she went over to him and embraced his thin body. He had been through hell, and the medical staff had certainly assumed they were going to lose him—and as much as Sola would have preferred the truth right from the beginning, he was correct. She probably wouldn’t have come up here if it had been just a he-isn’t-coming-out-of-his-addiction or he’s-lost-his-mind thing.
And that was kind of ugly to admit. Like cancer was a noble disease, but if your biochemistry had conspired with a drug to your mortal detriment then you were undeserving of sympathy, support, understanding.
“I am sorry,” he said into her hair.
“Me, too. And I love you.”
The shudder that went through him made her feel as though she was doing the right thing: He was relieved like that because he didn’t want to lose her as badly as she didn’t want to lose him.
“I will take good care of you and your grandmother,” he said roughly.
Leaning back, Sola pegged him with a hard eye. “That’s a two-way street. I’m not a damsel in distress who needs to be saved, I’m a partner who will help you to survive, too. If there is a price on my head, then the Benloise family has one on yours, too. You need me as well.”
“Yes,” he murmured. “I most certainly do.”
Sola had to smile. “Guess I told you, huh.”
“You certainly did. And it’s a huge turn-on. You want to go upstairs and order me around some more?”
She narrowed her eyes again. “Say please.”
“Pleeeeeeeeeeeeease…”
THIRTY-SIX
It was at about four in the afternoon the following day that Vitoria arrived at the gallery and learned she’d made a mistake. And unfortunately, she discovered her lapse of judgment in front of the police.
Striding through the rear of the building, she nodded at staff who were clustered together in stressed, chatty groups. Not much work was getting done, but she let that slide, given what was going on.
As she came out into the gallery space proper, she immediately identified the man standing in front of a balloon sculpture of a woman giving birth.
“You must be Detective de la Cruz?” she said as she walked over to him.
He turned to her and seemed relieved not be focusing on the “art.” “That’s right. Vitoria Benloise?”
“That is I.” Yes, she knew grammatically it was “me,” but she’d always felt that was too common-sounding. “How may I help you?”
He flipped opened a leather wallet, revealing a photo ID that read Detective José de la Cruz, Homicide, and a brass Caldwell Police badge. Then he put out a hand. “Do you have a few minutes to speak with me?”
The man was forty-ish, and with a name like his, she liked him even though they were already on different sides of the table. Plus he had nice, dark eyes. His clothes were simple, the sport coat and open collar professional-looking, but not stuffy, and she was surprised, given how cold it was, that he didn’t also have on some kind of an overcoat or parka: Even with the late-afternoon sun shining down, when she had gotten out of her brother’s Bentley, she had been chilled to the bone during the short distance to the staff entrance of the gallery.
“Absolutely, Detective.” She shook his hand. “What’s going on?”
“I’m investigating a homicide committed last night.”
“Oh, dear. Is this about Margot? I’ve seen the news on TV. What a tragedy! How does something like that happen in what should be such a safe part of town?”
“Actually, most homicide victims are killed by people they know.”
“So scary.” Out of the corner of her eye, she noted that a couple of salespeople had come out from the back and were watching. “Tell me, how may I assist you?”
“Well, I’ve spoken to some of the folks here already—about when Margot left work yesterday and who she might have been with. And they all told me that you’ve recently taken over the business?”