It allows me to use my voice. My loud voice. “Have you lost your mind? What are you doing here?”

His shoulders jump. He looks up. Even though I’m not able to read his thoughts, I can read what plays across his face just as clearly.

He’s startled, momentarily confused by my outburst, apologetic when he understands what’s behind it. He pushes back his chair and stands up.

He gestures toward the other room. “God, I’m sorry, Anna. I should have picked somewhere else to meet. I’ve been distracted lately.”

He glances at his watch. “I know the manager here, and I had to see him. I have to be at the airport in an hour. But I am truly sorry for my thoughtlessness. Sit, please. I have much to tell you and little time.”

When I don’t immediately move toward the table, he adds, I know it doesn’t make the situation better, but that girl is sixteen and makes more in one week than her father makes in a month in the fields. She only cares for the burro.

Only cares for the burro? I saw how she was caring for the burro.

Culebra winces at my anger. She and her brother support a family of twelve.

The brother must be the kid outside watching the car. So who’s the woman? Their mother?

It’s an imperfect world, Anna. You know that better than anyone. He lets a heartbeat go by before adding, She isn’t Trish.

Bringing up my niece and the abuse she suffered at the hands of her mother ’s friends provokes a flash of anger. I narrow my eyes and stare back at him. Not a good idea to be in my head right now. Out loud I say, “I won’t stay here.”

Culebra has the good sense not to argue. He gathers the papers from the table. “There’s a café across the street. We’ll go there.”

The music has stopped. The show must be over. When we step into the other room, men are staggering toward the door, no doubt off to find some other perversion. The urge to stop them, to break each of their necks and toss them into a Dumpster, is strong.

But stronger still is the urge to break the neck of the woman scooping scattered dollar bills and pesos from the stage. When she ’s finished, she says something in Spanish and tosses a dollar to the girl before disappearing into the back.

The girl is brushing the burro, crooning softly, ignoring the crumpled bill at her feet. She ’s pretty in the Spanish/ Native American, dark-haired, dark-eyed way. She’s slender, small-boned. Her skin has an unhealthy pallor. She spends too much time in this dump.

I fish my wallet out of my bag. I have two hundred dollars in twenties. I give it all to her. “Take the rest of the day off.”

She looks at the money, then up at me. Her expression doesn’t change. Her eyes hold neither warmth nor interest. She folds the bills out of my hand, slips them into the halter, and resumes grooming the burro.

That won’t alter her situation, Anna. I hope you didn’t think it would.

Culebra’s tone is sad and disapproving.

Of course I didn’t think it would, I’m tempted to snap back. But a part of me knows that’s a lie. I was hoping it might alter her situation for at least a day. That she would take the money and go shopping or to a movie, do anything a normal sixteen-year-old girl would do on a Sunday afternoon.

Instead, there’s a group of American teenagers, boys about seventeen years old, pushing through the doors, pointing with leering grins to the girl on stage.

My last glimpse of the girl is that she’s grinning back.

CULEBRA IS APOLOGIZING, AGAIN.

We’re settled in a booth in a café across from the bar. I can’t get that last image of the girl out of my head.

It’s all she’s ever known, Anna. She lives in a house, a real house, and provides food for her family. She has a chance to go to school . . .

God. I don’t bother to dignify that with anything other than a snort. Don’t bullshit me, Culebra. She’s not ever going to school.

I shrug out of my jacket and cast a glance around the café. While it is much cleaner and brighter than the bar, it does nothing to improve my mood. I slouch down on the bench.

“I hate it here. Why aren’t we in Beso de la Muerte?”

Culebra’s expression shifts to a look strange for him. Excited. Secretive.

“What’s going on?”

He leans toward me across the table. “I’m going away for a while.”

“Going away? Where?”

“I can’t tell you. Not now.”

“What will you be doing?”

“I can’t tell you that, either.”

He says it almost gleefully. Strange behavior for a shape-shifter whose expression normally spans the gamut from subdued to restrained.

So, I repeat, more forcefully this time, “What’s going on?”

He fidgets, not meeting my eyes, sending off a gust of impatience. “I just need to get away for a while. I wanted to tell you personally.”

“So why not tell me this on the phone or at Beso? Why drag me to this dump? There’s got to be more.”

He folds his hands and leans toward me again. “Sandra is going to be watching the bar for me.”

“Sandra?” I sit up straight. “She’s back?”

The last time I saw Sandra was four months ago, right after she won her battle against Avery. Avery, my Avery, the one I fought and staked only to find out he hadn’t died after all. He used powerful black magic to take over Sandra’s body and will. In a fight that almost killed her, Sandra accomplished what I had not. She sent Avery to hell, for real this time.

“She told me she would never come back.”

“She came because I asked her.”

“Why did you ask her?”

“I needed someone to watch the bar.”

My stomach is contracting into a barbed-wire ball of aggravation. This is like talking to a three-year-old. “Sandra turned down my offer to take over Avery’s estate. She said she was returning to her home to be with her own kind. Her pack. Now, suddenly, she’s here tending bar? You couldn’t think of anyone else? What about all your human employees? What about me?” It comes out a petulant howl of protest.

Culebra is in my head. I don’t care. I want him there. I want him to know that I’m more than a little upset that he didn’t think I would have done him this favor. Instead, he called on a stranger.

I’m sorry, Anna. You have your own business to run. I didn’t think you’d have time—

How long are you going to be gone?

I’m not sure. Two weeks, maybe.

I start to slide out of the booth. “Have a good time.”

“Anna, wait.”

He holds out a hand to stop me.

“Why? Are you going to tell me the reason you brought me to this shit hole?”

“I did.”

“No. You didn’t. You didn’t tell me a fucking thing you couldn’t have told me on the phone.”

He glances to the papers on the seat beside him. There’s a map on top. He shuffles them together so the map is hidden in the middle.

“I didn’t want you to be surprised if you went to Beso de la Muerte and found me gone and Sandra there. That’s all.”

Bullshit.

If that was it, he could have met me in Beso de la Muerte.

He picks that thought out of the ether. “Sandra is uncomfortable with seeing you. She asked if you might stay away until I get back.”

It’s the aha moment I’ve been waiting for. “Sandra doesn’t want to see me? That’s why we’re here?”

He drops his eyes.

“Why would she not want to see me?”

He looks up at me again. “She hasn’t gotten over what happened at Avery’s.”

“Wait a minute. She blames me for that?”

“It’s not rational. I know. She knows. But she lost Tamara. It’s complicated.”

No. It isn’t. I’m staring at Culebra, waiting for him to say something else. Something that makes sense. Something like Tamara was going to kill us both and her death was self-defense.

But he doesn’t. And his mind is closed.

Guess I’ll have to get answers from Sandra.