Surrender (25 page)

She steps back and puts her hand over her chest. “How dare you.”

“Oh, I dare . . .” I’m suddenly on fire. “It’s nauseating—shameful—to think what you did to her. I’m not condemning you, Dr. Gonzalez; it’s too late in the game for that. I’m here to ask you to make peace with her. She’s suffering in silence. Believe me, I don’t mean to sound melodramatic, but I can’t move forward with her until she knows where she stands with
you.
”

“We’ve had our share of problems . . .”

“Problems?” I laugh. “Is that how you refer to it so you can handle the guilt?”

She exhales, her eyes narrow. “What has she told you? All lies, I’m sure.”

Unbelievable.
“There’s a fine line between denial and truth. I’ve pieced together most of Robyn’s history through snippets she tells me and what her friends share. Make no mistake, your daughter is too gracious, too faithful, to ever consider doing this.” I gesture between us. “I’m not. I lost my parents three years ago—I barely survived it emotionally. My sister still suffers. My parents are buried a few miles from here. I visit them whenever I need to. I can’t imagine what it feels like to have living parents a few miles away who hate you. You’ve condemned her to a far worse fate then I have. She gets to watch you thrive from afar—while
she
slowly dies inside.”

Dr. Gonzalez flushes. She steps back another two feet. Her gaze flicks left and right. “I can’t believe you.”

She’s pissed.
Good.
So am I. I’m beyond angry. I’m amazed by this woman’s false piety—her cold-bloodedness. “I’m asking you to
really
think about it. Put yourself in her place. Love her or let her go so
I
can build a future with her.” I’m finished. I pound both my hands against my thighs. I didn’t expect this to affect me so much. I’ll help Robyn, regardless of what her mother chooses.

I don’t address half the things I want to. The alcoholism—physical and emotional abuse—abandonment. Emotions swirl inside me. I eyeball Dr. Gonzalez. She’s no longer standing nearby; she’s moved down the hallway. She’s sitting in a chair, head between her hands. Is she crying? I step closer. She has a blasted soul after all.

“Dr. Gonzalez?”

She looks up, then dries her eyes.

“I mean no disrespect—I’m only interested in what’s best for Robyn.”

She nods. “My family has been through so much.”

Yeah,
I think,
so has your daughter.
“If that’s the case, surely you can sympathize with Robyn now? Hasn’t she suffered enough? What did she do?” I’m calmer. Open to whatever explanation she’s willing to give me.

“There’s not any
one
thing she did wrong. We never got along. If you look at most of our family photos, Robyn is frowning in them. She wasn’t the happiest child.”

Warning bells. That’s what I think when I envision a miserable little girl. Something must have happened. “How long have you been an alcoholic?” Candid works for me.

Her eyes are mere slits. “Is that what she told you?” She’s rattled.

“Does it matter
who
told me? I’m trying to understand, Dr. Gonzalez. I want to leave here with a sense of hope. I can’t do that unless you give me something. Why you dislike her, what she did, or better yet, what you’re willing to do to move on with or without her. Wouldn’t that be easier?”

I can see she wants to argue. But I won’t give her another opportunity to trash Robyn. I think she knows that. She purses her lips. “I went through rehab three years ago,” she admits.

“I understand.”

“Do you?” she asks tersely.

My uncle died from cirrhosis of the liver and a friend in high school died of alcohol poisoning at a party. “I do—more than you’ll ever know.”

Her eyebrows rise as she scrutinizes me. “I don’t know how to start over with my daughter. I don’t know if I want to.”

“Start at the beginning,” I suggest. Why waste time rehashing the past? All that energy should be focused on creating a sustainable future. “Will you think about it, Dr. Gonzalez?”

“I’ll try.” She stands up. “I’m not in the mood for that coffee anymore. I hope you understand.”

I give her a tenuous smile. I take out my wallet, open it, pull out a business card, then hand it to her. “If you ever want to talk,” I say. “Call me anytime. I’m a good listener.”

She hesitantly accepts my card, reads it, then looks at me. “I don’t know what to make of you, Mr. Dempsey,” she observes coolly. “But I think my daughter may be fortunate to have someone like you in her life.”

Coming from her, I’ll take it as a compliment. An awkward silence follows as we stare at each other. I glimpse at my watch. I’ve been here an hour. I’m not sure what I’ve accomplished, if anything. But someone needed to give this woman a heavy dose of reality. A jump-start. My sweet girlfriend is an emotional zombie and I’m ready to take our relationship to the next level. So is Robyn, if she can clear her conscience of this years-old baggage.

“Goodbye, Garrick,” she says.

I watch her walk slowly down the hallway, back to her office.

It’s Saturday afternoon. Garrick left me on my own for the day. I miss him already; we’ve become pretty much inseparable. Since the induction of our “rules,” I’m no longer allowed to go to the pier by myself at night. It upsets me a little, the inequality of expectations—I’d never presume to alter his daily activities. Never. But I’m quickly learning why men do what they do, and why women are left to pick up the pieces. I gaze at the pier. I don’t see it often enough in the daylight. Somehow it looks different with kids running around and fishing. I check my watch. Three thirty. Franco should be here already.

He’s in the office. The door is ajar, but I knock.

He offers an instant smile when he sees me. “Come in,” he says.

“Hello.” For the first time, I notice framed photographs of south Texas wildlife hanging on the walls: jackrabbits, coyote, sandpipers . . . “Did you take these?”

“Sure did.”

“Wow, so beautiful. Ever consider selling them?” He shrugs, shy about his hobby. “How are you?”

He holds up his casted arm. “Itching.”

“I know what you mean.” I smile and show him my wrist.

“Carlos?” He looks upset.

I nod. “I guess a couple of his associates are tailing me.”

“Don’t take it lightly,” he warns. “Has he confronted you?”

“Oh yeah,” I say. “In the club last week. He made sure I knew what he intended to do with me. He considers my injury collateral damage.” I sit down on the edge of his desk. “I’m afraid to tell my boyfriend about it.”

“Why?”

“I swear Garrick is a fictional character out of a movie—chivalrous—with zero tolerance for assholes like Carlos. If he finds out . . . he’ll hurt him and go to jail. I can’t risk it.”

Franco raises his hands. “Carlos was here last night, spouting off about some bouncer at your club. Is he your boyfriend?”

I cover my mouth immediately. If Carlos figures out who Garrick is, he’ll use it against me. Threaten to hurt Garrick unless I do what he wants. “How cautious should I be?” I ask. “Some guys like to make themselves sound more important than they really are.”

“He’s the real deal, Robyn.” Franco’s eyes open wide. “His cousin is backed by one of the biggest cartels in Matamoros. Product, protection, money . . . I’ve never seen him
not
get what he wants.”

“I don’t understand,” I say, frustrated. “You get sucked in and don’t go to the police. Why? You have more than enough evidence to get him arrested, I’m sure.”

“And a family to think about,” he reminds me. “One phone call and we’re all dead.”

I glare at my feet. Sometimes I’m so stupid. I know what cartel guys do. “Sorry, Franco. I’m used to thinking singularly—not about a family.”

“It’s all right.” He smiles.

I still need answers if I’m going to get Carlos out of my life. “Why is he so obsessed with me?”

“You were at the wrong place at the right time,” he says. I look up. “A beautiful girl like you is always useful to a piece of shit like him. Think about it.”

I don’t want to. If I think too much right now, or speak, I’ll break down. I can’t believe how far I’ve come with Garrick, only to be kicked down by a drug-dealing, murdering asshole who refuses to leave me alone. “Is there anything I can do to get him off my back?”

“Want the truth?”

More, I want a solution. “Tell me.”

“Sleep with him.”

Didn’t see that coming. My shoulders slump. That’s what this is all about? The cat-and-mouse game ends in his bedroom? “Seriously?”

Franco eyes me. “Do you think you’re the first girl he’s harassed this way?”

I try to push the thought aside. I can’t. “How many?”

“A dozen over the years.”

“Oh my God.” I’m mortified. All those poor women. “Did you know any of them?”

“Nope,” he answers. “Carlos likes to brag, though. You’d be surprised where some of these women come from—housewives, teachers, business owners.”

What could Carlos possibly hold over them? It dawns on me. “Drug addicts?”

“Yup.”

“But, I’m not.”

“Maybe that’s why he wants you.” Franco doesn’t bat an eyelash.

I understand Carlos’s twisted game. But it doesn’t mean I have to accept it. “I need to find a way to put an end to this.”

“I’m acquainted with some of his associates,” he says. “Maybe if you talk to one of them they can help.”

“Why?”

“Let’s just say Carlos doesn’t command a lot of respect from his inferiors. He treats everyone like shit.”

I consider it. I know if anyone is willing to give me information or assist me in de-escalating the situation, they’ll want money. Money I can’t spare. But, if it gets this guy to leave me and mine alone . . . “When can you set up a meeting?”

“I’ll make a phone call.”

Chapter Twenty-five

I’m going crazy. Should I even bother scanning the crowd again? It’s ten on Saturday night and Robyn hasn’t checked in or called work. Her cellphone goes straight to voice mail. I’ve left work twice already to drive by her apartment, my house, and the pier. Macey and a couple of other girls continue to call her. She’s not at a hospital. I’m on the brink of calling the police. Nothing makes sense—we didn’t have a fight. When I left her this morning she was great. We’re happy. Unless something happened I don’t know about. The secret she’s been withholding since the day I got home from my field trip might be connected. I don’t know.

I stalk to the security office and scan the monitors. Everything looks normal, except me. I dial my house. Gretchen answers.

“Any news?” I ask.

“Nothing,” she says, then pauses. “I’m sure she’s safe, Garrick. Give her a few more hours before you do anything drastic.”

“Would you wait if it was your fiancé?”

“I didn’t mean it like that . . . I know she’s cerebral, that’s all. And after everything that’s happened, maybe she’s trying to figure it all out.
I
would.”

I take that as an admission of guilt. “So you finally admit you’ve been unfair?”

“Perhaps.”

I bite my fist. “Wait by the phone.”

“I will.”

I hang up. I lean back in my chair.
Think, Garrick, think.
Where could she be? Did she run out of gas? Is she visiting a friend? Did she drive to Odem unexpectedly? After this morning, there’s no way I’m going to call her mother,
not yet.

Someone knocks. I look up. Craig is standing in the doorway.

“What?” I ask. “Is there a fight?” I stand, ready to assist.

“No,” he says throwing me a measured look.

“Then what? I’m not in the mood for any shit, Craig. You know how I feel.”

“That’s the problem,” he says, inviting himself inside. He closes the door behind him. “I wasn’t going to say anything before . . .”

I stop listening the minute he says that. He knows something about Robyn.
Goddamnit,
I want to snap his neck.
In one second my hands could be wrapped around his throat. I’m already shaky and short-tempered; violence is the next step. I take a deep breath, my gaze never leaving his face. “Start talking.”

My heartbeat is erratic, palms sweaty. There’s been little talk between Franco and me. There’s too much tension, too much riding on this damn meeting with Carlos’s associate. I check Franco’s GPS; the address we’re looking for is 6834 Hugo Drive. I gaze at the house numbers. They match. There’s nothing unusual about the house: a 1970s ranch with a freshly trimmed lawn and a few flower beds. Franco calls it a safe house, whatever that means. I guess Carlos owns several around town. Franco finally kills the engine, then turns off his lights. I’m nervous.

I open my car door. He taps my shoulder. “I’ll walk with you to the door,” he offers.

My legs are wobbly. I’m dressed to impress this guy, wearing my best pair of stilettos and one of Macey’s most expensive dresses, which she left at my house the night we went to Rosario’s—a crystal diamond mini cocktail dress. Franco follows me up the walkway.

The front porch light is on. The big bay window near the front door is heavily curtained, but I can see light around the edges. Someone is here. Before we climb the three steps to the landing, the door opens. Carlos comes outside and my jaw drops open. What the hell is going on? Why is he here? I stare at Franco—the truth slowly creeping into my head. I’ve been set up.

“What the fuck, Franco?” I ask, ready to choke him.

He averts his eyes, his hands shaking. “Sorry, Robyn. I didn’t—”

“Shut up, Franco,” Carlos says. “She’ll understand. You betrayed her to pay off your debt to me. Now go before I change my mind.” He grabs my arm. “I’m impressed,
mamasita,
that you showed up.”

“Let me go.”

He laughs evilly. “Scream and I’ll punch you unconscious before anyone knows what’s going on. Get inside.” He shoves me toward the stairs.

I stare at Franco a last time, caught between pity and fury. He has a family to protect—I’m just a stupid stripper who says hello to him when I’m at the pier.

“Now.”
I get another push and decide it’s best to listen.

I click up the stairs, open the screen door, and enter. Façades are deceiving. The main room is huge and dimly lit. There’s a big-screen television hanging on the far wall. A black leather sectional nicely divides the room in two. The second area is dominated by a hot tub. I hear the jets roaring and see steam. The hardwood floors are new. Everything looks expensive.