Page 36 of The Vows We Keep

“Why do you Americans butcher every meal source there is? Pasta, oh, let’s make a vat of it and make it swim in sauce. Pizza, let’s treble the crust and stuff cheese inside it. Appetizers, how about we treble the size of them too so they’re big enough for a full meal? And don’t even get me started on restaurant-style guacamole.”

“We do it because the sauce on pasta is the best bit. And isn’t everything better with cheese? And if something tastes good, why wouldn’t you want a shit ton of it? And you win on the guacamole. There’s nothing quite like the guacamole I had in Cabo a couple of summers ago.”

“You should taste my mamá’s.” If I close my eyes and focus, I can taste it. “Chunky ripe avocados. Perfectly tart salsa Mexicana with lime, serrano peppers, tomato, onion, salt, and cilantro. It’s the best. She’s shared her recipe with me, but mine never tastes as good as hers.”

Niro glances out of the kitchen window to the gray sky. “Now you’re making me want some sun, a nice cold beer, and some guac.” He turns back to face me. “And maybe you in a tiny bikini all rubbed in oil.”

I roll my eyes. “Not gonna happen.”

“Which bit?”

“All of it.”

“Bet I could persuade you.” He slides the finished meal across the counter. It’s different than the bland sub I ate the previous evening. Tastier. Fresher.

I glance up at him. “I’ll be gone as soon as you help me figure out what happened to my father. There’ll be no beach. No beer and guac. And certainly no me covered in oil. Ever heard of sunscreen?”

Niro grins. “You have absolutely no idea how persistent I can be.”

“And you have no idea how stubborn I can be.”

I’m halfway through my lunch before what feels like the whole club descends on the kitchen.

“Awww, look, he made her food, like those crows you can train to leave you shiny gifts,” Clutch says.

“Fuck off,” Niro says, but his eyes stay fixed on me.

I look around and see Neva. “Estás bien?”

Neva simply tips her chin.

I offer her the rest of my sub and she shakes her head.

“You both told the exact same story,” King says. “Either you planned for this eventuality, or you’re telling the truth. I’m inclined to believe it’s the latter. You’re free to go. We’ll take you back to where you were staying, then escort you over state lines. Go home.”

“We should get out of here,” Neva says.

“No.” I stand. “We came here to find out what happened to my father.”

King steps toward me. “He’s dead. Any which way you paint it. He didn’t come back to you. We didn’t kill him, so he’s not buried here. There’s no polite way of saying this, but no matter where he was buried, his body has probably decomposed.”

I hate the idea that this is a dead end. And I’ve got no idea what I should do now. “But maybe you can help me figure this out. Niro drew me the three extra guys you buried, maybe we—”

“Show me,” King says.

I pull them from my back pocket and unfold them. King walks toward the window and studies them for a second before pulling his lighter from his back pocket, setting fire to them, and dropping them into the sink.

“No,” I gasp, before I remember I took a photograph of it and sent it to my mamá already. Relief washes through me.

King ignores me and looks at Niro. “For fuck’s sake, Niro. Why would you put your fucking fingerprints all over a piece of paper on which you hand drew people we killed? Didn’t we just get you out of one mess?”

I hate to admit it, but King’s logic makes sense.

Niro looks down at the ground, but I see the side of his jaw twitch in anger. “Except I didn’t get myself into that mess. Everyone’s favorite preacher got me into that mess, right, Saint?”

His eyes lock onto Saint, and I wonder what the problem is between the two of them.

“I asked him while he was still under the effects of the drug I used on him.” I don’t need to tell King it was hours later. Neva knows the truth, but I don’t make eye contact with her. “You can’t blame him for anything he did while he was under the influence. He didn’t stand a chance against it. It’s why it’s so effective.”