by Karina Halle
It chips away at my heart to hear her talk like this.
I stop walking and pull her to me, peering down at her gorgeous face so sweet with worry.
“Good people do bad things,” I tell her. “All the time. It’s called being human. Just because you’re overly sensitive to life, that your feelings overwhelm you, doesn’t mean you’re a saint, Violet. You’re not. I’m definitely not. And there’s nothing wrong with that. Don’t judge yourself because you’re not perfect and pure. There are enough hypocrites out there that will do that for you.”
She nods but I know she doesn’t believe me.
I cup her face in my hands. “Out of all the things my father taught me, the one that I take to heart is that this world is out to misunderstand you. All because people never take a good look at themselves. They’re afraid. They always like to say what they would do in a certain situation, they like to say ‘I don’t understand, I would never do that,’ but until that situation comes up, they just don’t know. We’ve seen this in the world, over and over again, with horrible results.”
I pause, taking in a breath, my hand going down and resting on her chest. Her skin is sun-warmed already. “Sometimes I think there’s a big black hole in the middle of everyone’s hearts. It’s something we’re born with. We go through our lives trying to find ways to fill it. But we never take a moment to stick our fingers in, to really examine the mess at our core. If we did, if we were brave enough, we would find out who we really are. What we’re really capable of. We would learn there are angels and devils inside each one of us, battling every fucking day. No one is exempt, though they like to pretend they are.”
Her eyes search mine, as if she’s trying to sort through the mess inside me. “Do you know what you’re capable of?”
I lick my lips. The desert air seems impossibly dry.
“I don’t,” I admit in a low voice. “But I have a feeling I’ll find out. That we both will. Together.” I take her hand in mine. “Starting now.”
We keep walking.
The Canyon Shores Estates are on the outskirts of town. For some reason I was expecting an upper class country club, or at least the usual terracotta-roofed subdivisions where Canadian snowbirds spend their winters playing golf and lounging by the pool.
Instead it’s a trailer park. Not a trashy one, but not high-end either. Surrounded by a big stucco wall lined with barbed wire, there are narrow paved roads flanked by mobile homes, RVs, and old palms. Some homes are brightly colored with small portable gardens out front and white lattice fencing, while others are fading and dilapidated. There is no shade. Even in the morning sun, it’s stifling.
“Huh,” Violet says as we stop outside of the guard booth, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. “I was expecting something different.”
I head over to the guard booth, hoping that it won’t raise red flags that we obviously don’t have an appointment.
The guard just looks at us from inside his booth and without anyone saying anything, the gate starts to rattle open slowly.
That was easy. I’m guessing this is one of those places where there isn’t much to steal.
I grab Violet’s hand, giving it a squeeze, and we walk in as the automatic gate slowly trundles past. Violet had said the address was 15 Desert Court and we pause by the faded map that shows us where all the little streets are. Of course, Desert Court is at the opposite end of the community, which means a few minutes of walking past homes.
There are a few people outside, sitting in front of their RVs in plastic lawn chairs, tanning their leathery legs. Inside the windows, faces appear, watching our every move as we go past. They’re a curious bunch, I’m sure only because nothing exciting happens much in a place like this. In fact, judging by the age of the people watching us, I’m pretty sure this is a waiting room to the afterlife.
Finally we come to 15 Desert Court, tucked away in the corner, a small bright blue mobile home backing up to the fence. A large date palm towers over it, casting rare shade over a pair of flamingos stuck into the tiny front lawn. It’s by far one of the nicer places in the complex, and with a Buick SUV in the driveway, it’s a sign that Raquel must be home.
“Well?” I say to Violet.
She’s staring at the front door, at a pink and yellow wooden sign hanging off of it that says Please Knock in flowery font. A bead of sweat rolls down her forehead.
“Violet?” I ask softly.
She licks her lips, gives me a wary glance. “I’m scared.”
“Nothing to be scared of,” I tell her. “I’m here with you. All you’re doing is just asking a few questions, questions you have the right to ask.”
She nods but doesn’t move. I have to make the move for her.
I walk up to the door, open the screen, and quickly knock.
“Vicente,” Violet says, anguished, and then hurries so she’s right behind me. If I left it up to her we would be standing here all day. Decisions aren’t always her strong suit.
I can hear the creak of the floor from inside the home, and I get the impression that someone is peering at us through the peephole. I wait, not wanting to knock again until I have to.
The door is unlocked in three different places before it slowly opens a crack, a pale face peering at us.
“Yes?” a woman says, frowning at me, the shadows from her house making her wrinkles deepen. “Who are you?”
I raise my brows. Not exactly the welcome I thought we’d get. Seems Raquel is on the cantankerous side of old age.
“Are you Raquel McQueen?”
Her frown deepens. “Yes. And who are you?”
I give her a placating smile, about to tell her when Violet steps up beside me.
“Mrs. McQueen,” Violet says. “I’m your granddaughter.”
Chapter Four
Violet
The woman’s face stares at me in awe, barely visible between the crack in the door. I can’t quite call her Raquel because it sounds so impersonal, and grandmother is a bit of a stretch, no matter that it’s the truth.
“Granddaughter?” she repeats, looking to Vicente and back to me. “Oh my goodness. Goodness, goodness.”
She disappears.
The door slams shut.
I purse my lips, looking to Vicente nervously. What do we do?
He nods, reading my mind, and raises his hand to knock.
Before he can, the door opens again, wider this time, the woman still peeking out the side of it. “Come in. Come in.”
I gulp, grateful for Vicente’s warm hand as it grasps mine, giving it a squeeze. Thank god he’s here. He’s a fucking anchor, holding me in place.
We step into her home. It’s dark compared to the stark sunshine of outside, all her curtains and blinds are closed. Yet it’s a bright place otherwise, with soft yellow walls and cream furniture. It pretty much looks like every grandparents’ place, with almost the same china hutch in the corner that my grandma Mimi has.
I’m immediately drawn to the line of photographs she has displayed on a low, doily-covered table but I restrain myself from walking over there and looking for my father. She’s his stepmother, and depending on how the relationship went—I’m guessing not well—she might not have any photographs of him anyway.
“Lovely place you have here,” Vicente says, hands now clasped behind his back and looking around. In his white dress shirt and dark jeans and black boots, marred only by the desert dust, he looks positively elegant.
“Thank you,” she says absently and shuts the door. She walks slowly over to the living room and turns on one of the lamps in the corner, peering at me.
I’m aware that I’m peering right back at her.
In the warm light, she’s a bit younger than I thought. I’m pretty bad at guessing ages but I estimate she’s maybe in her late seventies. She’s very thin to the point of looking frail, her face drawn and pale, her shoulder-length blonde hair with six inches of white roots. She must have been pretty when she was younger.
>
I’m not sure how long the silence passes between the three of us but I’m waiting with bated breath for her to make up her mind about me. There are so many fucking questions that I don’t even know where to start, but I don’t want to just unleash on her either.
Finally she straightens up, holding her loose knit cardigan close to her with shaking hands. I don’t know how she’s not roasting—the ceiling fan barely kicks up any air.
“I see it. I see him.”
My mouth flaps open in surprise, this shock that I was actually right. “My father?”
“Camden, yes,” she says slowly. “How did you find me?”
“It’s a long story.”
She gestures to the couch. “I live alone. I play bridge at five. I literally have all day.”
I exchange a glance with Vicente who just nods. We sit down on the couch while she takes the armchair.
“I suppose I should be a good host and offer you some coffee or tea.”
“We won’t take up much of your time,” Vicente says. “Violet just has a few questions about her grandfather.”
“Violet,” she repeats, seeming to chew on my name. “How is Ben?”
And just like that, it’s too much. Too fucking much. I feel panic rising in my chest, burning like acid. I’m on the cusp of all truth and I’m not sure how much of this I’m going to be able to handle.
Vicente puts his hand on my knee and says to her, “Ben’s great. Smart man. May I express our condolences on your late husband. I’m sure he will be missed.”
Smooth, Vicente. Very smooth.
But Raquel laughs dryly, though there is no humor in her eyes. “I know that can’t be true. George was a terrible father to Camden. I wasn’t much better as a stepmother.” She looks at me. “I’m really sorry that we all ended up this way. I can only imagine what you’ve heard.”
I clear my throat. “Actually, I haven’t heard a single thing. Ever. My father told me his father and mother died when he was a teenager. So I grew up believing I didn’t have grandparents on that side.”
“Oh dear,” Raquel says, easing herself to her feet. “Oh dear, indeed.” She flaps her hands at her sides nervously. “You know what, screw the coffee. I need something stronger. Either of you drink brandy?”
“Let me,” Vicente says, getting up and crossing over to her. He puts his hands on her shoulders and gives her a warm smile. “You sit down and get acquainted with Violet and I’ll get the brandy. I’ll put on a pot of coffee too if you wish.”
“Oh that would be lovely…?”
“Vicente.”
“Vicente,” she repeats, nodding a few times before sitting back down. “Coffee is in the cupboard by the sink. The brandy is underneath the sink where George always used to keep it.” He goes off to the kitchen.
Despite my nerves being all over the place, watching how gentle and polite Vicente is with Raquel makes me feel flush all over, like easing into a warm bath, if that warm bath was a straight shot to the heart.
I think I’m completely in love with him.
So much so that it takes all I have to tear my eyes away from him and focus on Raquel, my step-grandmother that I never had, the much bigger picture.
“Yes, I can see your father more now,” she says wistfully. “Same forehead. Expressions.” She pauses. “I suppose I should explain things from my end. I can’t say I’m surprised that Camden never talked about us. Things didn’t end well…they didn’t start well either, for that matter.”
“Were you ever in touch?”
She gives me an apologetic wince. “No.”
I shake my head. “I don’t even understand what happened.”
She gives me a shaky smile. “It was so long ago.”
I sigh. “I know it’s weird for me to drop by like this but…did you even know I existed?”
She shakes her head. “We knew Ben and that was it. After Camden and Ben disappeared, after Sophia was found dead, and her brothers…George didn’t want to follow up. He wanted to pretend that Camden didn’t exist. They never saw eye to eye. Camden was spiteful. George was…intolerable. It was a hard thing to watch. Looking back, I should have done more for him. But I would always side with George. Always. And now I’m paying the price.” She pauses, sneaking a glance at Vicente while he rattles in her kitchen. “Not that I think you need this advice with him, but always trust your instincts, Violet. I can tell you’re a smart girl.”
“I’m still so confused over what happened. Why would my father lie? Why would he say you guys didn’t exist?”
“You haven’t asked him?”
“He doesn’t know I’m here.”
“I see,” she says, leaning back into the chair. “And how did you find me again? If he’d told you I wasn’t alive.”
“The newspaper clipping,” I tell her, watching her closely. She seems confused. “I thought maybe you sent it.”
“No,” she says slowly.
“It was from the newspaper here. The article about George McQueen, how he died. Someone mailed it to our house. No letter, no return address. I found it before my parents did.”
She sucks in a breath, and for a moment I think maybe she’s having a heart attack. “You don’t know who sent it? Do your parents?”
I shake my head, feeling a wash of shame. “No. We never really discussed it.”
She clasps her hands in her lap and starts wringing them. “Oh dear.”
“What?”
She takes in a long, deep breath and her eyes turn sharp as she looks at me. “There’s something you should know.” She looks over at Vicente again, and though he’s measuring out coffee grounds, I know he’s listening. He has this uncanny ability to look like he’s not but he always is.
“What?”
“How much about your father do you know? Do you know of his shop here? Well, it’s gone now, but he had a tattoo parlor.”
“I know he had a tattoo parlor. He has one still, but it’s in San Francisco. Sins & Needles. Same name I think?”
“And is it a legitimate business?”
I frown.
“What does your mother do?”
“She’s a photographer.” But even the truth sounds weak.
Vicente comes over with the bottle of brandy and three small glasses which he elegantly places on the glass coffee table between us. “I can vouch for Violet’s parents. Both businesses are legitimate.”
“Why would you even ask that?”
“The fact that you had to ask that tells me everything I need to know,” Raquel says.
I’m starting to feel stupider by the minute. “It was only recently that I learned he was married before my mom and that Ben is my half-brother. Ben didn’t even know that.”
Raquel nods as Vicente pours her a glass. She knocks it back, coughs. “I needed this.” She thrusts out the glass for Vicente to refill and he does it without hesitation.
She takes just a sip this time and lets out a long breath, visibly relaxing. She stares off at the window. “Age is a curse, you know. Sometimes I don’t think I’m old at all. And then something like this happens and I realize how far on the other side I am.”
While she stares off at nothing, I look over at Vicente. He gives me a small, encouraging smile and hands me the brandy, which I gratefully take.
When she starts speaking again, her voice is flat. “Your father married Sophie and things were well. We were all very happy, especially when they had Ben. But the marriage was on the rocks. Eventually they split and Camden came back here to open his tattoo shop. We didn’t agree—George is, was, very conservative. It wasn’t until later that we realized what was going on. He was using the shop to launder money.”
I almost laugh. In fact, I choke on the brandy. “Excuse me?” I manage to say between coughs. “My dad was a money launderer?”
She gives me a wry smile. “And your mother was a con artist. At least I hope they’ve both left those pasts behind.”
WHAT?
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��what?”
“A con artist,” Vicente muses. He doesn’t seem surprised in the least.
But here I am. Reeling. Floored. I can barely sit up straight.
None of this makes any sense.
And yet I feel deep in my heart that all those puzzle pieces that have been floating around in there all my life, they’re finally sliding into place.
“She comes from a family of grifters,” Raquel says. “That is to say, you come from a family of grifters. The Watt family was known in this town. As a teenager, Ellie was raised by her uncle Jim, until he died tragically nearby in the town of Hemet. Shot in a motel room by who knows who.”
Vicente stiffens beside me. I’m still unable to comprehend any of this. The answers I’ve always wanted but was too afraid to seek out. And with good fucking reason.
I know who I am now.
The blood of frauds and criminals runs through me.
Raquel goes on. “I know this must come as a surprise. Camden and Ellie were good friends in high school, and then she moved away to do who knows what. Lie, cheat, steal. Whatever her game was. She came back later, got embroiled with Camden again. I’m still not clear what happened, but they disappeared one day. Then the Madanos got involved. George had a hell of a scandal on his hands. It was their money that Camden was laundering. He had stolen it. We couldn’t believe it. Your father was always so mild-mannered. Polite. Caring. Highly sensitive. Never thought he could do such a thing. But that’s what happened.”
“Then how did Sophie and them die? Did Camden kill them?” Vicente asks, as if that’s not a huge leap to make.
“Not quite,” she says, taking another sip of her brandy. “There was an incident in the Mojave Desert, near here. At the old airplane graveyard. A shoot-out with the Madanos and a Mexican cartel.”
“What cartel?” I ask quickly. I glance at Vicente but his face remains entirely impassive.
She shrugs. “Aren’t they all the same?” Then she looks at Vicente and gives a flustered wave with her hand. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to insult you.”
“It would only be an insult if I was part of a Mexican drug cartel,” he says with a broad smile. “I’m thinking it was most likely the Zetas, judging from how long ago this must have been.”