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CHAPTER 33

I ANSWER THE phone and step outside, leaving Carlos to watch the old basketball game without me.

“I saw the news out of El Paso and just wanted to make sure you weren’t anywhere near there,” Willow says.

I chuckle uncomfortably as I walk down the hall toward the exit. “Actually, I was there,” I say. “Right in the thick of it.”

“Oh, Rory. Are you okay?”

“It’s been a hard day,” I say, stepping outside into the cool night air.

Light glows over the city, and I can see the Franklin Mountains illuminated in the distance. There’s a wooden bench in front of the hotel in a small garden with various kinds of cacti on display. I sit down and stretch my feet out in a small patch of grass.

Willow expresses concern for me, and I talk about what happened without going into too many details.

No need to tell her I shot anyone.

No need to tell her how close I came to getting killed.

Back when we were dating, we used to talk this way after every altercation I got in wearing a badge. This afternoon, when I finally had a free minute, I texted my parents to let them know I was okay. I didn’t think to tell Willow. It shouldn’t have surprised me that she’d call to check on me. I’m touched by the sentiment.

I shift our conversation away from the raid—it’s not helping me to talk about it—and ask her how the new album is coming.

“Not bad,” she says. “We’ve got room for a few more tracks. Oh, thanks for sending those lyrics, by the way. They were wonderful.”

I’d forgotten all about texting her the lyrics. The fight with Randy had happened right after, and then the raid.

We share a laugh together about the “Texas Forever” song.

“Any chance you’ll use it on the album?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” she says. “My producer isn’t convinced. He says it’s too regional and won’t appeal to fans outside of Texas.”

“Hmmm,” I say. “Imagine if Lynyrd Skynyrd’s producer said the same thing about ‘Sweet Home Alabama.’”

“No kidding,” Willow says. “I’ll tell him that tomorrow. The band and I are going to play around with the song then. I’ll try out the new lyrics.”

“If there’s anything I sang that you want to use, you’re more than welcome to.”

“You looking to get some songwriting royalties to supplement your income?” she says in a playful tone.

“Never crossed my mind,” I say. “No need to credit me with anything. It’s your song. I was just trying to help.”

“I appreciate it,” she says. “We’ll see what happens.”

As I talk, I hear a beeping. I pull the phone away from my ear and see I have an incoming call from Megan. Not wanting to interrupt Willow as she talks about the album, I let it go to voicemail.

Willow and I talk for another few minutes, and then I let her go. It’s almost midnight in El Paso and even later in Nashville. We used to end our conversations by telling each other “I love you,” and it feels weird not to say it.

After I hang up, I call Megan back, but the call goes straight to voicemail. I don’t bother to leave a message. Apparently her break is over.

When I go back in the room, Carlos has dozed off on his bed. I turn off the TV and shut off the lights. Lying in the darkness, I try to think about Megan or Willow—anything but what happened today. But it doesn’t work. My mind keeps veering to the men I shot, the agent in the hospital tonight fighting for his life, and—most of all—Marta Rivera and what might be happening to her right now because I couldn’t stop Llewellyn Carpenter.

It’s a long time before I’m able to drift off to sleep.