I Love You Like That

by Heather Cumiskey

  Mostly she remembered spending what felt like hours in that damn station wagon, tracing the ice formations on the windows, and praying that the next sound of footsteps coming from behind the car would be her mother.

  I need to tell Dad. I need to tell him now.

  CHAPTER 32

  South beach, Miami

  WEEKS LATER, NO ONE HAD BOTHERED TO CLEAN UP Pedro’s blood behind the stove at the pink safe house. Deacon eyed the sight each time he entered the kitchen, knowing it could have been his DNA splattered like a Jackson Pollock painting if Chalfont hadn’t intervened. Now it served as a thorny reminder that he was the one the drug lord favored.

  Deacon never thought he’d be back at that house again after the scare of being followed. It had turned out to be more cartel members, all of them angry over what had gone down that night at the docks. Chalfont’s familia was coming undone.

  The sight of guns and bloodstained walls contrasted sharply with the sane moments Deacon spent with Paul. He’d gladly take the old man and his wife, Ida, home with him back to Connecticut if he could.

  Deacon nodded toward the armed men seated around the kitchen table counting large bags of uncut coke. They barely acknowledged him when he walked in, which he gratefully took as sign that none of them possessed the same fiery animosity toward him that Pedro had—or if they did, they at least weren’t going to act on it.

  This time, he didn’t come alone. He wrapped his arm around Claudia’s shoulder and pulled her into his side, their signal that the show was about to start. He heard Chalfont’s voice in the other room, and then Luis’s. Deacon twirled Claudia around toward him. She laughed, playing her part. He waited until the drug lord was within a few feet of them before kissing her.

  Chalfont stood in the doorway of the kitchen with a machine gun slung casually over his tank top and striped dolphin shorts. His obsidian eyes narrowed at the sight of Claudia’s strapless pink lamé dress and white pumps. She flashed him her wide, flat smile, to little reaction. One of the men seated at the table took in an eyeful of her exquisite body, however, which she clearly enjoyed.

  “Ah, Xavier . . . bueno, bueno!” Chalfont boomed enthusiastically. He ushered him into the dining room, where a map was spread across the large table.

  Claudia continued flirting with the man in the kitchen.

  Chalfont began pointing out drop points on the map in areas along the docks. “We’ll have hombres here and here, should there be a problema.”

  The drug lord leafed through a stack of papers, causing some of them to land on the floor. Deacon stooped to get them, as did Chalfont. Now at eye level, he had the pleasure of feeling the drug lord’s heated, sour breath on his face.

  The small man’s eyes ricocheted in every direction as he whispered, “We think Thompson tipped off the cops that night when our group got ambushed. He’s the one who began this whole unpleasantness. For that, he’s no longer welcome in the familia.” He drew a finger across his throat.

  “Muerto?” said Deacon. “When did that happen?”

  “No, you have to matarlo, esta noche. You need to be the one; the men need to see your loyalty to them, para la familia. You and Luis head out together, before the meet time. I don’t want another problema.”

  They rose to their feet with Deacon staggering a bit, feeling lightheaded. Chalfont had never asked him to carry out a murder before. He wasn’t a hitman. His role was to meet the shipments from the drop points and ride along with them to the safe houses.

  “Mi capitán, I don’t know—”

  Deacon stopped talking when he saw what the drug lord held in his hand: a manila envelope with a crest comprised of primary-colored flags and ducklings. A wave of nausea struck him. He’d seen it before, but where?

  “Is there already a problema, Xavier?”

  Deacon swallowed. “No . . . todo bien, all good.”

  There was no time to contact the Feds about Chalfont’s new plan that night, especially with Luis glued to his side. Claudia, too, was sent out with one of the henchmen’s girlfriends to make a bank vault deposit. Deacon doubted that she’d be able to get to Kodak and Eastman in time for them to intervene. They both knew that the Feds wanted Thompson alive; his testimony was vital to helping bring down Chalfont and the cartel. But what could they do?

  Climbing into Luis’s car, Deacon hadn’t a clue how the night would go. He hoped Luis would simply step in and be the hero.

  “Radio?” Deacon asked with his hand over the dial.

  “No,” Luis sneered. He looked at Deacon and shook his head. He let out a short laugh.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “That Chalfont thinks you’re capable of shooting a man like Thompson.”

  “I’ll do as he says,” Deacon said with a shrug, sounding like the obedient soldier he was expected to be.

  “I bet you will,” Luis said salaciously.

  Deacon ignored him. He couldn’t wait for the ponytailed wonder to be out of his life.

  Ten blocks from where they were to meet Thompson, Deacon noticed something out his window.

  “Wait, slow down . . . what is that? Do you see it? There in the street?” He pointed over the dashboard toward the alley. “What’s moving on the ground?”

  Luis swerved off to the side, sprang from the car, and began running toward the objects in the middle of the road. Deacon followed behind him.

  A young woman in a business suit was leaning over a man who was lying in the street. She was caressing his face.

  Groceries were scattered around them like she’d thrown the bag up in the air, the makings of a dinner that would never happen. The man’s body moved spastically on the asphalt, blood gushing from his neck, his face contorting while his eyes pleaded to the heavens.

  Her head swiveled from the man to Luis and Deacon. She raised her hands as they approached and cried, “No dispare, no dispare! Don’t shoot!”

  Deacon’s body jerked back as Luis fired two rounds into her chest.

  “What are you doing? This doesn’t concern us!” he yelled, covering his ears.

  One more shot between the eyes and the man’s jerky movements ceased.

  “What the hell, Luis? It looks like a petty robbery . . . why did you have to kill them?”

  Luis crouched next to the man’s body, holding his wrist for a pulse. He dropped it off to the side and glared up at Deacon. “This is Thompson.” He flicked his gaze toward the woman on the ground. “And his esposa. This is their barrio.”

  “His neighborhood? The meet point was at the docks. Was he even going to be there?”

  Luis frowned pensively, surveying the alley.

  “You should have let her go.”

  “No testigos, Xavier, ever!”

  “We’ve got to get out of here, someone must have called the cops by now.” Deacon rechecked the alley. “Whoever got to Thompson first is long gone.”

  “What’s that damn sound?” Luis steamed.

  “Feral cats, come on,” he urged. But the cries rang in his ears too. It was strange. He’d never heard cats carry on so. The mewing grew louder. From the shadows, two little girls appeared, crawling over to the bodies. Oh, my god.

  “Silencio!” Luis ordered.

  The couple must have been their parents. They both tried in earnest to wake up their mother. The older girl was not more than eight, with large, soulful eyes and a delicate face. Her little sister, who could have been her twin, looked around five. Both wore pink smocked dresses and shiny black patent leather shoes with tiny gold hoop earrings and matching bracelets on each wrist that glittered in the moonlight.

  “Hand me their pulseras,” Luis barked.

  Deacon didn’t question his crazy request; all he wanted was to get out of there. Reluctantly, he slipped off the girls’ bracelets and passed them. The girls howled more.

  “Virgen de Guadalupe, 14 karat, nice.” Luis kissed the medal on one of the gold bracelets between his thumb and forefinger and raised it to the sky before pocket
ing each of them. The gesture sent a sharp pain into Deacon’s gut.

  Luis yanked the girls up by their wrists and started to drag them toward the car.

  Deacon blanched. “Wait, where are you taking them?”

  “They’re witnesses . . . they are going in the cold truck.”

  The older daughter screamed and bit Luis. Her eyes lit with fire, her little body quaking with rage. She wasn’t giving up. She turned to Deacon, pleading in Spanish for him to do something, to save her and her little sister.

  “Xavier, carry her!” Luis ordered.

  I can’t, I just can’t. Deacon pretended not to hear him. He hoped she’d settle down and he wouldn’t have to be a part of her demise.

  “Xavier!” Luis yelled. “I’m speaking to you!”

  “I can’t kill them. How ’bout we let them run away . . . they’ll be too scared to talk.”

  “We’re not killing them, estúpido.”

  “Then why the cooler?” He’d seen Chalfont’s people use refrigerated trucks before. They were a necessity in their line of work, mainly used to cart off the corpses, especially with the intolerably hot Miami temperatures. They acquired them from fast food chains like McDonald’s and Wendy’s. The cheery family-friendly logos on the outside concealed the human stench on the inside until they were able to dump them. Sometimes the bodies were packed in there with several others for weeks at a time. Deacon tried not to think about those trucks and their real cargo. He could no longer stomach the slogan, “Where’s the beef?”

  Luis pushed Deacon out of the way. He took cable ties from his jacket and began cow tying the older girl’s hands and ankles together while the younger sister beat him with her tiny fists.

  “Still so much to learn, Xavier. I don’t understand why Chalfont puts up with you.”

  “What am I missing here? Where are they going?”

  Luis stopped and faced him. “Their little hearts will fetch a nice price.”

  A wave of hot acid rose up Deacon’s throat.

  He ran.

  He didn’t stop running.

  CHAPTER 33

  darien, Connecticut

  HANNAH SPOTTED HIS BABY CHIPMUNK FACE AND MUSCULAR man-body from across the food court. Toby sat eating by himself, just like he had been the day Peter pounced on her for hanging with Bryan.

  She collected the change from her fries and Diet Coke and stole another glance. She veered toward a table on the far side of the food court—then her footsteps slowed. Don’t even think about it. She ignored her own advice, turned on her heel, and weaved herself back through the tables. She didn’t know why she was doing it, nor could she restrain herself.

  She idled at the side of his booth, realizing, to her horror, that her brain had wiped itself clean. Her ears burned; her feet suddenly stuck to the floor.

  Toby’s freckled chipmunk cheeks flushed upon seeing her. His Popeye arms flexed down to his knuckles, while his legs bounced under the table. She’d forgotten his annoying nervous energy.

  His dark, heavy eyes sliced her to pieces, daring her to say something.

  She clenched her jaw and dropped into the bench across from him. His brows pinched together, drawing his eyes into the center of his face. She held his stare for several seconds. They both looked away at the same time.

  Toby exhaled and dropped his shoulders.

  Hannah swallowed hard, wishing she hadn’t begun this.

  “You work here?” she mumbled, her voice sounding crackly and strange.

  Toby glowered off to the side, causing her to follow his gaze. No one was there. His disdain was for her.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “It’s a free country,” he mumbled. His eyes shot off to the side again.

  A prickly silence sprang up between them, sending sweat trickling down her sides under her T-shirt. Hannah knew this was a bad idea. But it was the closest thing to seeing Deacon’s chocolate brown eyes again, even if they were on his killer’s face. A part of her also wanted the opportunity to tell him off.

  “Look at me. Bet you can’t even do that,” she snapped.

  He obliged smugly, bestowing his go-to look of boredom. She’d seen it before.

  “You f-ed up my life,” she hissed, leaning over the table.

  “And you, mine.”

  “How the hell do you figure that?”

  “I lost my brother because of you!”

  “Dude, really? You were the one who . . .” She mimicked pulling a trigger with her hand.

  Toby’s face drained of life. He crossed his arms, grabbing his broad shoulders, and sank lower in his seat. “Still . . .” he said quietly, breaking eye contact.

  “Oh, that’s right . . . I made you kill your half brother. My mistake.”

  “I didn’t mean—never mind. You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Try me.”

  The suspended air over the table thickened. Time all but stopped. Hannah swore to herself that he would have to be the one to leave; she wasn’t going anywhere.

  “I . . . I have no one now.”

  She looked up, unsure if the soft utterance had come from his mouth or her own thoughts. Toby’s legs ceased moving. She no longer heard the busy sounds echoing through the food court. She just heard Deacon’s. Brother’s. Breathing.

  Hannah sucked the air back into her lungs, containing the knife-wielding words she’d come to say. Their edges had suddenly dulled. She slouched low in her seat and stayed that way for a while.

  Her weird exchange with Toby was still freaking her out when she woke up the next morning. She replayed the conversation in her head as she started getting ready for work. They’d said very little to one another. His face, however, had communicated a mini-series of pain. His eyes had mirrored back the same gut-wrenching emotions Hannah had experienced after losing Deacon, including those dark, faraway thoughts that found her when others weren’t around.

  Recognizing their shared sadness had brought her a strange sense of comfort even as it had upset her; she’d nearly broken down in front of him.

  This unlikely commonality startled her. Before, she’d believed Toby to be a cold, soulless killer. Now she understood that Deacon had left the same crushing void inside of both of them.

  Toby must have loved him too.

  An hour later, she walked briskly through the mall’s side entrance with sweat waterfalling down her back inside her T-shirt dress. She shifted the wide belt slung over her hips to the other side. It liked to move when she walked. The mall’s AC felt wonderful today.

  The stores’ metal accordion gates were still blocking their entrances when she arrived, leaving just enough space for the first-shift employees to shimmy through. The Muzak on the sound system kicked on, accompanied by the rolling wheels of the cleaning carts and the occasional pair of high heels marching through. The early-morning sounds of a mall coming to life reminded Hannah of a high school orchestra tuning up before an assembly.

  It was her morning to open. She braced herself for The Candy House’s olfactory overload of chocolate, confectionaries, and salty nut mixes. She reached around for the latch on the employee door and began flipping on the overhead lights and illuminating the candy bays. She was entering her employee number into the register when she heard a familiar voice.

  “Hey, Hannah.”

  Bryan. Her head popped up. “Oh, hey. So you got hired! Where are you working?”

  He pointed to the nameplate on his red polo: “Chess King.”

  She nodded slowly, forging a straight face.

  He read her thoughts anyway. “Yeah, I’m not white enough for Merry-Go-Round.”

  “That’s bogus. It’s their loss,” she said. She hadn’t considered the obstacles he faced applying for jobs compared to her. Bryan was so handsome and clean cut; how could they not hire him? The guy dressed better than she did and was far more polished.

  Watching Bryan’s face, she felt a stab of embarrassment, coupled with guilt. How could she work for someone like H
owie who actively discriminated? By not saying more, wasn’t she perpetuating the problem?

  “I’m used to it,” he said, resting his elbows on the candy bay in front of her. Hannah made a mental note to Windex the area before Howie arrived. He liked everything pristine, which was pretty annoying. Then again, maybe she’d blow off cleaning as a form of protest.

  “Wanna hang out later?”

  “Sure.” Something jumped inside her chest when she answered.

  “It’s okay with your boyfriend this time?” he teased, pushing off from the counter.

  “He’s not my boyfriend.”

  “Later, then.” He flashed her a grin before turning away.

  “Later.” Hannah blushed, enjoying the way his butt moved in his jeans when he walked. She pressed her lips together to conceal her smile. She was grateful that he didn’t look back, though she was sure he knew she was watching.

  “Is this table okay?” he asked as they were being seated later that afternoon.

  So polite. “Sure. Looks great.”

  “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”

  Hannah laughed. “Me too.” She looked around the Irish pub–themed restaurant and saw a few families, a table of teenagers, and another young couple perhaps on a date. “Guess I didn’t OD on the gummy bears at work as much as usual today.”

  A petite girl approached their table. “Welcome to Bennigan’s! My name is Tammy. I’ll be your server. How are you guys today?” She managed to show nearly every one of her teeth as she spoke. And they were big. Tammy was a cute, curly-haired blonde who looked like she’d just misplaced her pom-poms somewhere.

  After she left, Hannah tilted her head in her direction. “See, that could have been you.”

  “In my dreams. I’m not that perky.”

  “So you’re going to let me use that sweet Chess King employee discount?”

  “Funny . . . very funny.”

  Hannah laughed. “Just kidding. I’m sure their clothes are nice. Well. Some are . . . maybe.”

  “How’s The Candy House for Diabetics?”