Second Grave on the Left

“Yes.”

“I’d always wanted to ask you the same thing. He never told us. Just got really weird.”

“You mean weird like you?” I asked.

“You’re funny.”

Cookie and I ate at the Cowgirl Café before leaving Santa Fe. We ate in silence, studying the papers and pictures we’d obtained from Elaine—especially the grainy ones—both of us stunned speechless. We drove home the same way.

“I’m going to go through these files on the Hana Insinga case,” Cookie said when we pulled into the apartment complex.

“Okay, I’m going to run to the office and check messages and, I don’t know, do something productive.”

“Okay.” We were both in another world, both worried about Mimi and Reyes.

As I crossed the lot to Dad’s bar, I realized I had slipped into a bit of a depression. Who needed PMS when I had RAF? Mood swings apparently came with the job. But I couldn’t get past the fact that I had not seen Reyes all day. Not once. And his wounds, from what little I saw, were mortal, even for a supernatural being.

Had he died in the night while I slept in the warmth and comfort of my bed? It had been a fitful sleep, but still, I wasn’t being tortured. Or maybe he’d died while I was having coffee with the Three Stooges this morning, or while I was having tea and crumpets with Stalker Chick.

Seriously, how long could he have lasted? He healed faster than the everyday human, but I couldn’t imagine him surviving even a few hours with those wounds, much less days.

I cut through the bar to get to my office. Dad was nowhere in sight. I thought about seeking him out, but a couple of guys turned my way the minute I stepped inside, frosty mugs in hand, so I ducked into the stairwell before they could act on their nonexistent chance to hit on me. I checked messages and e-mail before typing in the words that had brought me so many sleepless nights, so many heated dreams and illicit fantasies. I clicked on SEARCH, and approximately three seconds later, a list of Web pages loaded, each resplendent with the name Reyes Farrow.

I needed to find out how much they knew. Did they know what he was capable of? Did they know his background? Did they know what his idea of the perfect date was?

The hours passed in a fog.

In the end, I came to two conclusions. One, none of them had a clue who or what Reyes really was. And two, there were some lonely-ass women in the world. I went from being consumed with jealousy to simply incredulous and even a little sympathetic. It’s not as if I could blame them. Reyes was nothing if not magnetic, his gaze in each and every picture hypnotic, a born heartbreaker. No wonder hordes of women desired him, craved him despite his criminal record.

Remarkably, there was one tidbit of information that pretty much stunned me speechless. It was a good thing Mr. Wong didn’t talk much. Or, well, ever. I felt astonished beyond the ability to converse. Under a tab on Elaine Oake’s Web site titled “Unconfirmed Rumors” was one section that explained a lot.

It is an unconfirmed rumor, and quite frankly we here at Reyes Farrow Uncensored are skeptical, that our beloved Rey has a little sister. A thorough search of state and county records would indicate to the contrary, but we all know what a secretive man our guy is. As always with Reyes Farrow, anything is possible.

She sounded like a gossip columnist. Surely that was how the U.S. marshals found out about Reyes’s sister, Kim, but how the hell did Elaine get that information?

I was actually a little surprised that none of the stories Neil told me had leaked onto any of these sites. I was certain Elaine would have paid a small fortune for such things. Maybe Neil had covered it up as much as possible. I’d have to ask him about that.

Before I knew it, the clock struck three. Metaphorically. I hadn’t stayed up this late since that Twilight Zone marathon a few weeks back. I shuddered to think about how many cups of coffee I’d drowned my sorrows in over the last few hours. Which would explain the uncontrollable shaking I was experiencing.

Hoping sleep would not evade me completely, I decided to see if Dad was still downstairs before I hit the sack. He usually went home between midnight and two, but it never hurt to check. Either way, I could raid the kitchen. A quick bite might help me sleep.

Maybe it was that fifth cup of coffee, or even that sixth, but I had a strong sense something was not quite right at Calamity’s when I got downstairs. The place was pitch black, as it should have been, but a light filtered into the room from underneath Dad’s office door. My stomach was a little queasy as I weaved around tables and barstools. Maybe I’d just hunt down some soup when I got home instead.

I opened the door. Dad’s light was on, but he wasn’t there. As mundane as that sounded, a jolt of adrenaline rushed straight to my heart. Because now I could feel a twitch of fear emanating from the kitchen. I could feel disorientation and dread as well, but the fear overrode everything else. I ducked behind the bar and grabbed a knife before making my way around to the kitchen door. The closer I got, the more overwhelming the fear became. With the warmth that surrounded the emotion, the texture and scent of honey-lemon cough drops, I knew it was Dad. And he was doing it all on purpose. Almost as if he were warning me to stay away. But he didn’t know I could feel other people’s emotions. Did he?

I had no choice but to ease as quietly as I could through the swinging doors that led into the pitch-black kitchen. Once inside, I inched into a corner to allow my eyes to adjust. Why I didn’t carry night-vision goggles on my person twenty-four/seven, I would never know.