And this, from yesterday:
Where are you? I can meet you in Benjamín Hill, where the tracks fork. Get off the train and wait for me at the station. I love you. Don’t worry.
She stared at those words, swallowing past the lump in her throat. It wasn’t like him to get sentimental, but the strangest part was the last bit. He’d trained her to stay on high alert. Guarded was his default setting. Telling her not to worry wasn’t his style. At all.
His voicemail had sounded strained, also. Something was off. She scrolled through her IMs to make sure she hadn’t said anything mushy in her last communication. There were no “I love yous” in their exchanges. Their never had been. What she did find was an indication of a deleted text. It had been sent the night she’d been hiding in that rotten trash shoot.
“No way,” she breathed.
“What’s up?” Hugo asked.
“Hang on,” she said, glancing at her father’s page. His status said “on vacation,” with a bunch of stupid emojis. “This is not right.”
The train went over a bumpy section of track, jostling her against Hugo. The phone almost slipped out of her sweaty hand. She stuck it back into her pocket without replying. Then she followed him up the ladder. When they were seated on the surface again, she tucked her knees to her chest and clutched the edge of the metal grate. She didn’t know what to do.
Her father wanted to talk in person, not on Facebook. Was that a warning? Was his status update another clue?
“Was it bad news?” Hugo asked.
“I don’t know.”
He fell silent beside her, not pressing. He’d tried to kiss her again last night, when they were alone in the dark. She’d been tempted to take the sweet escape he offered, but she couldn’t afford to get carried away. She already felt lost and uncertain. Everything was out of her control. She was barely holding on to herself.
Although he’d seemed crushed by the rejection, he didn’t sulk or act angry. He hadn’t argued that she owed him kisses. He’d told her about his sisters. She’d told him about her mother. Then she’d fallen asleep in his arms again.
“I’m not Sayra,” she said finally.
“What?”
“My name is Sarai. My father works for the Tijuana cartel. He has enemies in Los Rojos. They’re looking for him, and me. That’s why I’m on the train.”
His brows rose with surprise. The black eye he’d been sporting two days ago had faded into a pale purple crescent. Without the swelling and discoloration, he was even more handsome. His wavy hair brushed his collar, thick and unruly. “Qué chingón,” he said, letting out a low whistle.
She shook her head sadly. “It’s not badass. He’s going to die.”
“Is he hurt?”
“He says he’s better, but I think his days are numbered.”
“Why?”
After a short hesitation, she removed the bloodstained envelope from her pocket. “He had a woman deliver this letter to me last week. It explains everything. He killed three men in the Los Rojos cartel because they were responsible for my mother’s death. According to my father, they’d planned to target me next. So he eliminated the threat.”
“Why did those men want to kill you?”
“My father was in the PFM, and wouldn’t take bribes.”
“That’s fucked up.”
“Yes. After he carried out his vendetta, he joined the rival cartel as an undercover agent. Then his boss got assassinated, but he didn’t return to Mexico. He chose to stand by Carlos Moreno and stay in San Diego. He became the kind of man he hated.”
“I’m sorry.”
So was she. “He said he couldn’t come back, and that I’d be safer without him.”
“Maybe that’s true.”
“I don’t care if it’s true or not. He left me.”
Hugo put his arm around her, squeezing her shoulder. She told him about the strange messages on her phone.
“Sounds like someone hacked it,” he said. “They could be tracking your location.”
She traced the familiar shape in her pocket, troubled by the idea. The phone was her baby. It had been her constant companion, her link to her father, a connection to the outside world. Now it felt like a ticking time bomb on her body. She considered throwing it over the side of the train, right then and there.
“Write down the number he called you from. Then get a new phone and call him.”
“I’m not sure I want to call him.”
This statement gave him pause. “I’d give anything to talk to my father again.”
“Was your father a cold-blooded killer?”
“For all I know, he was. He died when I was seven. The only memory I have is of him leaving to go to the U.S.”
She contemplated that for a few moments, swamped by melancholy. She’d been on the run for five days and she was done. This was no way to live. She couldn’t ride the rails anymore. She wanted to go home, but she didn’t have one.
She wanted her mother.
Her face crumpled at the thought. She shut her eyes and took deep breaths until she got a grip on her emotions. Then a familiar numbness crept over her and the pain faded away. Although it was a relief to not feel, shutting down had its drawbacks. She couldn’t stay sharp and be numb at the same time. She didn’t know how her father managed. His heart was a block of ice, impenetrable.
And yet, revenge was a crime of passion.
The train passed Hermosillo and continued north. She had to make a decision before they reached the fork in the tracks. Tijuana or Nogales?
“We’ll be in Benjamín Hill soon,” Hugo said.
“I know.”
“Are you going to toss your phone?”
“I’m going to toss myself.”
“What?”
She brought the phone out of her pocket and replied to the last message from her father:
Can’t stop at BH. Heading to Nogales. See you there.