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Until she stopped checking her rearview mirror.
Until she no longer flinched at every touch.
His phone rang. He fished it out of his pocket, brows lifting at the name on the screen.
Carson Elliott.
The Phoenix detective investigating his mother’s death.
Felt like a lifetime ago.
“Detective Elliott.”
“Mister Varella. I canvassed your mother’s neighbors like you asked. One of them remembered seeing her the morning of her overdose—talking to a man outside her apartment. He handed her a small white paper bag. Looked like it came from a pharmacy.” A pause. “About five-eight to five-ten. Salt and pepper hair. Distinctive mustache.”
“Manuel Ortega,” Caleb growled. His mother had reconnected with his father’s sleazebag friend.
“His employer says he’s out of town. I plan to question him when he returns.”
“Don’t bother,” Caleb said flatly. “He’s dead. Gunned down last night in Albuquerque. The FBI can confirm.”
“Huh. Well, one bad guy down,” the detective said. “Unfortunately, plenty more to take his place.” A beat passed. “Again, I’m sorry for your loss. I hope this gives you some closure.”
Caleb ended the call and looked down at the silver and turquoise bracelet on his wrist—the one from the box of his mother’s belongings.
Closure.
Vincente Lopez and his cousin Juan were dead. Ramón Lopez was in custody. And if Diego Lopez ever learned the truth about who ordered his son’s murder, Ramón wouldn’t stay alive for long.
If closure meant letting go of the vendetta and building a future with Gia, then yeah.
He had closure.
Footsteps echoed down the hallway.
Agent Walton appeared. “They’ve finished interviewing Doctor Barone.”
Caleb’s shoulders loosened. “Is she free to leave?”
Walton hesitated. Sympathy flickered in his eyes.
“No.”
Gia stood outside the conference room with a female federal agent—her name escaped her—while the agents inside decided her fate.
Fatigue pressed down on her like a weight. She fought to stay upright.
She’d told them everything. In excruciating detail.
How she’d met Vincente. What little she’d seen of his business dealings. The people they’d dined with—names when she knew them, faces picked from photographs when she didn’t. Times. Places.
The first time she met the man the DEA identified as their agent, Antonio Cardenas.
The night Vincente murdered him on the yacht.
How Juan dumped his body overboard.
Then the questions had turned personal.