One.
Two.
Three.
They’d be talking about abuelito’s retirement party.
Four.
Five.
Six.
Mamá would laugh at something Papá said and then lean across the seat to kiss him on the cheek.
Seven.
Eight.
Nine.
Papá would say “good morning, mi’ja”, even though it was ten o’clock at night.
Ten.
Beth didn’t even have to open her eyes to know something had happened. Something awful.
A wet gasping sound came from the front seat.
She opened her eyes and parted her hair, pushing it back out of her face.
First, she saw the empty spot where her father had sat behind the steering wheel.
Next, the hole in the windshield, big enough for a man to fall out of and disappear forever.
Finally, her mother’s long brown hair tangled around her once pretty and now bruised and bloodied face. Her body lay twisted on the station wagon’s ceiling, but her face looked up, her brown eyes unfocused.
“Maaaaaaaammmmmmááááááá!”
One of her mother’s eyes twitched, but nothing else moved. Her mouth gaped open as she wheezed in a desperate breath and exhaled a wet one.
Beth slapped at the seatbelt, trying to unlock it, straining against the nylon. “Mamá, help. I can’t get to you.”
A single tear slid from her mother’s eye, the droplet tracing its way across the bruise reddening her cheekbone.
Papá had disappeared.
Mamá lay unmoving.
Beth couldn’t escape, couldn’t help, couldn’t do anything.
Terror blacked out everything. She kicked her legs until one of her Keds flew off. She beat the window with a fist and thrashed about. Exhausted after only minutes, Beth’s harsh breathing filled the car.
Only when her panting slowed did she realize it had been the only sound in the car.
As if on its own power, her gaze landed on her mother’s still figure. “Mamá.”
Her mother wouldn’t answer ever again. Guilt twisted around her heart and squeezed.
All because of her.
If she hadn’t whined, they wouldn’t have stopped for dinner. Her family would be home. She’d be asleep in her bed. They never would have seen the other car. None of this would have happened if she hadn’t been so selfish.
It was all her fault.
Chapter Two
Today.
Hank Layton surveyed the late dinner crowd at Juanita’s, munching away on enchiladas and plates loaded with puffed-up tortilla chips covered in frijoles, melted cheese, guacamole and jalapeños. His stomach growled as if he hadn’t eaten in a year.
“Hey ya, sheriff. Just you today?” The Juanita of Juanita’s strode up to him armed with a menu he knew by heart.
“Just me. Can you put me in the back room?”
“Trying to avoid the ladies elbowing each other out of line to be the next Mrs. Layton?”
“Not quite.” He lowered his voice. “It’s my mom.”
“What is it this time?” she asked.
“Founders Day is coming up–”
“Got you working overtime, huh?”
“The woman is a slave driver and she sees it as the perfect opportunity to grill me about grandkids.”
Juanita shook her head knowingly. “For most people, I’d say what’s wrong with a mama who’s concerned with her children, but for you, I say I have the perfect table. Come on.”
He followed her through the cramped dining area, past the Mexican flag depicted in neon light and into an area that was more of a large alcove than a separate room. She handed him a menu and waved him in before scurrying to the kitchen, presumably for chips and salsa.
The back room held four two-person tables. A woman occupied one.
Beth Martinez sat with her back to him with her I'm-a-serious-lawyer jacket slung haphazardly over the back of the chair. The strands of her normally silky-smooth, long brown hair stuck up at odd angles. She sighed and slouched lower in her seat.
He’d known Beth since she and his little sister Claire became Girl Scouts together in second grade, but this was the first time he’d ever seen her looking so…lost. The Mexican-themed red and yellow lamps put a spotlight on the faint tremble of Beth's shoulders. All huddled up and turned away, her body language said “leave me alone”, but he couldn't. Something more than common decency, he didn't know what, pushed him toward her table.
“Hey there.”
Her head shot up. Even with the barrier of her glasses, he could tell she’d been crying. She took a quick swipe at a cheek with the back of her hand.
“Mind if I join you? I hate eating by myself.” He turned up the charm wattage on his smile when she eyed the exit. “Come on, I’ll buy your dinner and we’ll call it even from all the times I stole your Ring Dings when you and Claire had sleepovers.”