Rose’s eyes tear up as she guides the needle through my flesh.
“That’s good,” I tell her, trying not to let her see me wince. “You’re doing fine, keep going. Keep the stitches together and tight.”
“This is going to be a nasty scar,” she says, clearly trying to distract herself.
“Chicks dig scars.”
She gives me a flat look and keeps going, awkwardly but competently tying off the suture.
Great, only a half dozen more to go.
By the time she finishes the last one, Rose is growing fairly practiced.
“You lost a lot of blood.”
“Yeah, I’m a little dizzy. Might be best to give me some. Check the fridge.”
Rose gets up and leaves me there trying not to pass out, and heads into the kitchen.
“There’s bags of blood in here. They’re marked universal donor.”
“Yeah, great. You’ll need to start an IV first. C’mere.”
Rose walks back out. “I have no idea how to—”
“I’ll walk you through it.”
I’m nervous as she prods my arm, but it’s easy enough to find my veins. She wipes down the spot with alcohol and slips the needle in, badly. Under my direction she tapes it down and secures some tubing to my arm so it won’t rip out, and sets up the IV.
Once it starts to flow I lie down on the couch.
“How long do we have to stay here?”
“I don’t know,” I sigh. “I’m not feeling so hot.”
She brushes the hair out of my face. “Get some sleep.”
I close my eyes. Something like sleep comes, halfway between wakefulness and drowning in the heavy dark of a deep sleep. Something wakes me, my body jerks, and I find myself lying on the couch covered in a blanket. Karen and the girls are sitting on the floor in front of it, watching an almost-muted television. Rose sits back so her head leans on my arm.
When she sees I’m awake she looks at me and rests her cheek on my shoulder.
Sleep grabs me again.
The next time I wake up, it’s light out.
What is it, Monday?
I sit up, or try to. Rose pushes me back down. The kids are at the little dinette table by the kitchen eating cereal. Rose looks quietly panicked and sits down next to me.
“I’m not at work and the kids aren’t at school. This is going to be trouble.”
“I’ll write them a note,” I sigh.
Rose gives me an annoyed look. She’s had a shower since I went to sleep. Her hair is damp, clinging to her neck.
“How do you feel?”
“Like I got in a fistfight with a cheese grater.”
There’s a knock at the door, and the whole room tenses, everybody going rigid.
Rose stands up. I sit up, wincing. Not much good I’ll be, but I rise shakily to my feet. Rose looks at me and drops down the stairs, looks through the peephole, and slowly opens the door.
It’s Lily. She presses inside, closes the door, and jogs up the steps.
“Well?” Rose says.
“I stayed close until the authorities arrived. They’ll ID the cartel people, they won’t ID Santiago, there are no records on him.”
“What about the girls?” I rasp.
“Authorities are moving them out. Every three-letter is there right now, poring over the place. I think they even called in the FDA.”
“Great,” I grunt. “You’re not going to try to kill me again.”
“No.”
“Then what are you going to do?”
She holds up a piece of dark cloth. It hangs from her fingers like a discarded skin.
Santiago’s mask.
“There must always be a Santiago de la Rosa. He wasn’t the first, you know.”
She holds the mask in both hands. “I wonder if this is how he got it,” she sighs. “Killed the one that came before him.”
She extends her hands and offers it to me. “You deserve this more than I do.”
“Get that thing away from me,” I rasp, stepping back. “I’m not going to take over for Santiago.”
Rose takes my hand.
“I’m out. I’m done,” I tell Lily. “I’m not a killer anymore.”
“Somebody needs to take over for him. Do you know what would happen if there is no more Santiago de la Rosa?”
“Somebody else will take the contracts,” I sigh, lowering myself into the couch.
“Girls,” Rose says, “go in the kitchen. Now.”
Rose sits next to me and squeezes my hand.
“There’s something else,” Lily says. “Santiago has unique access to the criminal underground. Everyone knows him, he knows everybody, if only by reputation. The women in that warehouse aren’t the only ones, you know. There’s thousands of them, millions of them all over the world. Think of the horrible shit these people are involved with. Somebody on the inside…” she trails off.
“Sudden change of heart,” I rasp, eyeing her.
She sits down on a side chair and fingers the mask in her hands. “Santiago de la Rosa was my life,” she says softly. “He took me in when I was fourteen, raised me, nurtured me, trained me. Then I find out the whole purpose behind it was to get back at you. I’m just a footnote in somebody else’s story.”