Page 140 of You'll Never Find Me

But I couldn’t get to my gun in my boot without making myself far more vulnerable.

I sprung up and away from him because he was focusing more on getting his gun than on me. But then he had it in his hand and aimed it at Rafe as the front door burst open.

I threw myself at Carillo because I knew down to my soul that in his rage he would kill my uncle.

He turned the gun toward me, but I didn’t stop, even when he fired. Even when I felt a burn in my left arm. I punched him with the palm of my hand in the solar plexus, which knocked him to his knees and had him gasping for air.

By that time, the police were inside and had Carillo on his stomach, hands behind his back, putting handcuffs on him as he struggled to breathe.

I went to Rafe and hugged him tightly.

“Are you okay?” I asked. “He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

“No,” he said. He touched my arm. “You’re bleeding.”

“It’s a scratch.” I stared at him. “You knew Jack and I were at the church—why did you go with him? You could have signaled.”

He shook his head. “I never thought I was scared to die. Death is a beginning, not an ending. I will be with our Heavenly Father. I know that with all my heart and soul. But when he told me he would kill me if I didn’t come, I believed him. In that moment, I didn’t want to die. I was selfish.”

“No,” I said. “You are human.” I hugged him again. “I’m not ready to lose you, Uncle Rafe.”

Jack came in, his face first panicked, then relieved. He hugged me, then squeezed Rafe’s shoulder. He stared at my arm. “You need a paramedic.”

“I’ve had worse.”

“Humor me. There’s an ambulance on the way.”

“No,” I moaned. “One condition—I don’t want to go to the hospital. The paperwork alone will drive me to drink. I’ll let the paramedic clean and tape the wound, okay?”

“I’m going to stand over you, and if it’s worse than you say, you’re going.”

“It’s not.”

“We’re going to have to talk to the police, give statements.”

“Let’s do it now,” I said, “because there’s no way I’m missing Pop and Abuela’s party tomorrow.”

I smiled at Uncle Rafe; he didn’t smile back. He was still processing everything that had happened, and I wished I could tell him that it was absolutely normal to fear death, even when you believed in the afterlife.

I believed. Maybe not as strongly or devoutly as my uncle, but I sensed something else was out there. But I could wait for Heaven because I had my family, my community, my calling right here on earth.

And there were more people like Annie Carillo who needed my help. Because as my dad always told me, “If not you, who? If not now, when?”

Saturday

Sixty-One

Margo Angelhart

My grandparents are two of the most amazing people I know.

Abuela shared her advice and suggestions freely. So did Pops—he loved to talk about the law to anyone who wanted to listen. And we all loved spending time listening to them. They’d lived amazing lives and I felt grateful and sincerely blessed that I had been born to this family.

Both Pops and Abuela celebrated their 81st birthdays in February, but it was today, May 24th, that mattered more to both of them: sixty years of marriage. I wasn’t surprised that Uncle Tom’s restaurant was packed with friends and family—more than two hundred people showed up, and that didn’t include kids under ten.

The only thing that would have made it perfect was if my dad were here. Three years in prison and the emptiness without him still physically hurt.

While I loved my family, so many crammed together laughing, talking, hugging—it became a bit overwhelming. I stepped out to the back patio and found Lu and Tess sharing a pitcher of Uncle Tom’s killer margarita.