Deadly Games - Cate Noble [30]
Chapter Ten
The numbing cocoon of ice that had started to crack at the news of Lupe’s death had shattered when Gena had turned and found Rocco Taylor standing there.
For a brief moment, she had thought she’d lost her mind, had thought she’d conjured Rocco from thin air. The Rocco she’d loved and believed in. The Rocco she’d thought could do no wrong, could heal any hurt.
Then he’d spoken and explained his presence.
The pain of her present had collided with the grief from her past, slicing her open. What he’d said—
That Lupe had died instead of Gena. That those men had been after her.
Gena had been desperate to get away from Rocco then, needing to process his explanation in solitude.
But she’d no sooner crossed the lobby floor, having left Rocco cooling his heels outside, than a woman she recognized from the shelter had pulled her aside. Pilar.
“I heard about Lupe,” Pilar had whispered through tears. “She … was my friend.”
“I’m so—” The unfinished condolence stuck in Gena’s throat.It’s my fault.
“Here.” Pilar thrust a battered shoebox into Gena’s hands.
“What’s this?” Gena held out the box, uncertain.
“Lupe called it her hope chest. Hope for a better future, I think. It’s things she saved: letters, photos, money.” Pilar’s voice broke on a sob. “The police came to search her belongings. But Lupe kept this hidden.”
“And you want me to turn it over to them?”
“No! Can you see it gets to her abuela? We promised each other.”
Lupe’s grandmother. “But how can I find her abuela?” Gena asked.
“Read her letters.” Pilar looked down the hall just then and grew pale. “Border Patrol! Please, I must go! If they find me here—”
Don’t ask. “Follow me,” Gena said. “We can leave through the emergency room.”
Gena had left her battered Toyota parked in the back lot. Thankfully, she kept a spare ignition and apartment key in one of those hidden magnetic boxes. Without it she wouldn’t have been able to follow Lupe’s ambulance to the hospital last night.
But once outside, Pilar had refused Gena’s offer of a ride. “I left a friend waiting at the bus stop. It is enough that you will take care of this.”
Lupe’s box.
Fighting tears, Gena had climbed into her car and given in to the urge to flee, to drive and never stop. But in the close confines, away from the antiseptic hospital scents, the smell of smoke clinging to her hair and clothes gagged her. Before she did anything, she had to get cleaned up.
Now she was pulling up in front of her apartment. A neighbor was out front washing her car while talking on her cell phone, oblivious to her three children fighting over the water hose.
The normalcy made Gena ache. She picked up Lupe’s box on the passenger seat and placed it in her lap, staring at it for several seconds before actually getting around to lifting off the lid.
A photograph taken two weeks ago at Lupe’s birthday party lay on top. Lupe had asked Gena to help hold the cake up for the picture. Then Lupe had laughingly removed all the candles except one. “To celebrate my beautiful cake. It is my first one.”
Her last one, too. Gena’s eyes overran with tears.
Maybe Gena hadn’t really known Lupe. Not as best friends did. Or even long-standing casual friends, for that matter. But there still had been a number of important parallels in their lives. They’d known the same fears and heartaches. That they’d fought the same torments gave them a bond.
Just beneath the pictures, wrapped in plastic, were three of the blue frosting roses Lupe had pried off her cake and air-dried. She had mentioned she was going to send them to her abuela.
The next layer revealed another photo, this one of an old woman holding a broom, standing in a dirt-patch of a yard and surrounded by chickens. But it was the smile that drew Gena in. And the kindly dark eyes that were so like Lupe’s.
Lupe had loved her abuela. And somewhere in Mexico an old woman waited for a granddaughter’s next phone call, next letter. How long would she have to wait? How many sleepless nights would pass?
And when would the fear set