Page 54 of Liar

“And you?” I cock my head to look at him. “On a scale of one to ten, how far are you willing to go to get what you want ... ?”Dios, what am I saying?“I mean like, um ... winning Nacionales?”

The color drains from his face.

“Eduardo? What’s wrong?” Dios, did he catch my slipup?

“I better get those bags from my car.”

“So, about extending the dinner invitation—”

“Fine.”

Well, this is awkward. I do what is best and flee before things get worse. “I’ll be out back making arrangements unless you need help with the bags.”

I catch his expression before he turns away.

Is that…regret I see?

15

My week is borderline boring and drama free, and therefore perfect. But in the early hours of Wednesday morning, it blows up in my face.

A loud crash in the living room has woken me from a sound sleep. I’m out of bed and armed within seconds. I’ve taken to sleeping with the loaded Glock by my bedside whenever Diego’s out of town.

A muted curse confirms I’m not imagining things. But if the thief is in search of fine china and polished silver then he’s inside the wrong house. On the console where our household finery used to sit is a growing stack of university brochures. I, too, curse every time one arrives in the mail. Diego is going to be treated to quite the bonfire the next time he’s home. Bulldozing me isn’t going to work.

I crack open the bedroom door and listen attentively. The sofa springs creak. A glass rattles on a table. A groan, that is quickly muffled.

My grip on the gun is steady as I enter the living room. Seconds pass before my eyes adjust to the darkness and I can make out the shadow of a man on the sofa.

“I thought you were out of town.”

My brother takes a deep drag of beer.

“What are you doing in the dark?” I walk toward the sofa and flick on a lamp. “Out here drinking alone—¡híjole!” I cry out at the sight of him.

His right eye is swollen shut and is a bluish-black color. His lip is split open. His free hand is clutching his side, his ribs. I’m completely, utterly shocked. My brother never loses a fight.

He looks like he lost a war.

“What happened?”

He takes another long sip of beer before answering me. “Help me wrap these ribs before the inquisition begins, okay?”

I swallow and rush off to retrieve the first aid kit, ice, and aspirin. Diego has his shirt off by the time I return.

“Dios mío.” His chest is a patchwork quilt of blues, blacks, and reds.

I hand him a popsicle since I forgot to make ice. “For your eye.” Then I get busy, carefully binding the large gauze over his ribs and around his middle. I wait until the task is completed before searching his face for answers.

“You’re not going to like what I say.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time.”

He attempts to sigh, but it ends in a moan.

“I’m all ears.”

“I know you are, conejita.” He pauses to inhale a shallow breath. “The beating is from a cartel initiation.”