He is survived by his wife Raquel and his stepdaughters Kelli and Colleen. Donations may be made to the Baptist church.
The paper slips out of my hands, floating slowly to the counter.
I can hardly breathe, hardly move. My heart is thumping, slow and loud, until it’s all I can hear.
What the fucking fuck did I just read?
I snatch the paper back up, blinking at it, trying to understand the words and what they’re saying.
Sheriff George McQueen.
My grandfather I never met.
My grandfather that my own father told me had died when he was a teenager.
I’ve had a grandfather all this time and never knew about it. I spent my whole life thinking he was dead.
Why would my father lie to me?
Why was my father involved in a “scandal” over twenty years ago, why has he been presumed dead or missing this entire time, and what the fuck does he have to do with drug cartels?
I don’t know what to do with this information.
There’s nowhere for it to go, no space in my brain.
There’s only that zinging feeling at the back of my head, traveling down my spine, the feeling that tells me I was right.
I was raised in a house of lies.
The only thing I know is that I can’t let my parents know I found this. I have to assume that my mother is in on this truth as well. I have to keep it to myself and carry on until I have a better idea of what’s going on.
I have to talk to Ben.
Please, lord, don’t let him already be in on it.
I know I’m running out of time, that my mom could come home at any minute and bust me, so I take out my phone and take a picture of the clipping. Then I put my phone away, stick the clipping back in the envelope, take out a small vial of Krazy Glue from the junk drawer, and carefully glue the flap shut.
Footsteps coming up to the front door.
My mom.
I quickly jam the letter back into the stack of mail and leave it on the counter so it looks like I casually threw it there as I often do.
Then I turn and run as quietly as I can up the stairs to my bedroom, going inside just as I hear the front door open.
“Violet?” my mom calls out.
My heart is racing now, galloping around and around in my chest, and I’ve got a horrible feeling that I’m on the edge of losing control, of losing any sense of understanding who I am, who my family is.
“I’m here!” I manage to cry out, my voice breaking.
“Okay!” she calls back, and I hear her go into the kitchen.
I wait a few moments, staring blankly at some of the city shots I have on my wall. There’s a black and white print of the ferry building, swamped in fog, looking like something out of a film noir. I took it when I was still in high school, one of those days where my ex-boyfriend Hayden and I would roam the streets, pretending to live bigger lives than we did. And now, with one letter, I feel my life is growing too large, too fast.
If all of that about my father and grandfather is true…
Who sent that letter? Why wasn’t it addressed? They obviously wanted Dad to know that his father had passed away, so why not a phone call?
“Hey, Vi, were you making something?” my mom shouts up, sounding distracted. “The kettle is on.”
Crap. “Uh yeah, was going to make some tea.”
“What kind? I’ll make it for you.”
I take a deep breath and make my way down the stairs, trying to appear as casual and normal as possible.
My mother is standing in the kitchen and rifling through the cupboard where we keep the tea and coffee. I eye the stack of mail. She’s already gone through it, and I can see the envelope folded up and sticking out of the back of her jeans.
I quickly avert my eyes and get two mugs out. “You want some too?”
When she turns around to face me, she shakes a box of green tea and jasmine at me, smiling.
“I need the caffeine. This okay?”
But her smile seems forced, on edge, her eyes wary. I wonder if mine look the same.
I don’t think she suspects a thing.
And now I suspect everything.
Chapter Two
Vicente
Sinaloa, Mexico
“Always keep your promises.”
It was something my father often said, like it was some bit of personal wisdom of his, a catchphrase with a copyright. He says it in such a grave way, like this type of honor is more important than any other. He holds being a man of your word above all else.
It doesn’t matter that he’s killed thousands, wounded thousands more, made billions, ruined millions. He wants you to believe that above all else he is honorable and good.
I can’t take it seriously. Especially when I know of more than a few occasions when he gave his word and then did the opposite. But in his twisted, warped logic, he never sees that he’s at fault. There’s always an excuse.
But tonight there is no excuse.
My father is drunk again.
It doesn’t bother me. He doesn’t get vicious—no more than he is sober. He doesn’t get loose—he’s as composed as always. If anything changes, it’s his honesty. He starts to spout the truth, and I always make sure I’m around, like a fucking dog, eager for any scraps. Anything at all.
Tonight he’s in his office, a bottle of expensive tequila open beside him. He’s invited me to have a drink with him. I know it’s because of what’s been happening this last week.
He’s afraid.
I don’t drink much, but I smoke like a chimney. I sit down on the leather seat across from him, light up a cigarette, and accept the highball glass half-filled with amber liquid. My mother jokes that I have tequila eyes, like my father, the color of the darkest, most golden reserve.