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“What the fuck was that?” Even he sounded breathless. I was about ready to pass out from asphyxia.

“It’s a long story,” I said.

“Yeah?” He glanced at Aalia. Even in the darkness she was as pretty as a love sonnet. “Maybe you should tell it in the house, then.”

The first wave of adrenaline was starting to dull, leaving me shaken and numb, but I managed a nod. Walking was a little more difficult, what with the shaky knees.

I ushered Aalia through my back door. Vincent accompanied us. She glanced up at him, shy admiration in her eyes.

“This your friend?” he asked, just now loosening his tie.

I knew he was thinking of the weird letter-writer, but there really didn’t seem to be a reason to clarify at the moment. “Yes,” I said.

He nodded. Aalia pressed a little closer to me.

“You okay?” he asked, and stared down at her. To the uninitiated, it might have looked like a glare. The first time I had met Vincent I had wet myself.

As far as I know, Aalia was more controlled than that. She gave one clipped nod.

“What the hell happened?” he asked, and pulling his tie free, opened the top two buttons of his shirt. A fair amount of firm, black skin showed above the crisp, white V.

Aalia pulled her gaze from his chest, but failed to answer. Her usually olive skin looked pale, her lips almost lavender.

“Was that your husband?” I asked.

She closed her eyes and nodded again.

“Wait a minute …” Vincent sharpened his scowl. “You’re married to that fucker?”

I felt her wince. Maybe he did, too, because he took a deep breath and shoved the gun out of sight. A black James Bond on steroids.

“That guy was your husband?” he asked.

“Yes.” It was the first word she’d spoken since I’d spotted her beside the garage.

“You separated?”

It seemed to take all her courage to raise her eyes to his. “I left him and my homeland some days past.”

He glanced at her arm, then reached out and pulled back the sleeve of her jersey. She remained exactly as she was, eyes as wide as a fawn’s. “He do that?” he asked.

She pursed her lips and raised her chin the slightest degree. Pride and guilt all embedded in one confusing cocktail. Human beings—the ultimate mystery. “Yes,” she said.

He glanced away. A muscle danced in his jaw. “What’s his name?”

“Ahmad Orsorio.”

“You gonna go back to him?”

Pride again, less fear, and a smidgen of contempt. “Not so long as there is breath in me.”

Vincent stared at her. Something shone in his eyes for a moment, then he gave a short nod. “Then I’d suggest—” he began, but in that moment we heard sirens.

He raised his brows at me. “Another friend?” he asked.

“Probably.”

“I’ll take off, then,” he said.

“Not your friends?” I asked.

“Not generally,” he said and giving Aalia one more glance, stepped out of the house and into my backyard.

“LAPD,” someone yelled, and pounded on my front door.

“Rivera?” I called.

“Open the fucking door or I’ll tear the house down,” he snarled.

Yup. That was him.

23

Yes, the burka I could wear again. But so could I be fried in hot oil like the malawah.

—Aalia Orsorio, spreading

her wings

I locked my back door, then hurried through the house to the front door, where I clicked the dead bolt open and came face-to-face with a Glock. Rivera was behind it, looking grim.

“Where is he?” His gaze seared past me, sweeping the bedroom door, the steps, the living room.

This was a new side of Rivera. I mean, he’s generally foreboding, but this was foreboding going on deadly. It was kind of a turn-on.

“He’s gone.”

“The house is secure?”

I considered a joke, but decided I didn’t particularly want to get shot. “Yes.”

“And the girl?”

“Aalia?”

He still didn’t look at me, but swept his weapon sideways, covering every opening. “Is she here?”

“Yes.”

He exhaled, then lowered the gun a couple of inches, which was nice.

“Where’d the fucker go?” he asked. Rivera didn’t fool around with TV phraseology like “perps” or “bad guys.” It almost made me doubt the authenticity of Hollywood.

“North on Opus.”

“On foot?”

“Car.”

“What make?”

Crimony!