Five running steps carried her to the bookshelves. She thumbed through every text and novel, shaking them on their sides to see if anything fell from the pages.
Nothing.
She continued along the shelves, removing and returning the books. How long had Hector been gone? Four minutes? Five? She needed to go.
“What are you doing?” His soft voice drifted from the door, paralyzing her lungs.
She forced herself to breathe. Then she turned slowly, willing the tension from her neck and shoulders.
“Hey.” She pinned a timid half-smile on her lips. “Sorry I was digging through your books. I knocked, but you weren’t here.” She motioned at the shelves behind her. “I was looking for something new to read.”
“Have I not given you enough books?” He remained near the door, his face concealed by shadows.
“You’ve given me too much.”
He’d given her more than anyone else had in her life, and she repaid him by snooping through his shit.
“Any updates on the gringos?” He set down his bath towel and toiletries and joined her at the bookshelf.
She grasped desperately at the change of topics. “Not since last week. We’ve been…”
“Making use of the condoms?” He lifted an eyebrow. “Garra told me you needed more.”
Oh, Jesus. Her face heated, and she looked away.
“You’re enjoying yourself.” His tone lacked judgment or suspicion. “There’s very little pleasure in Jaulaso. Take it when and where you can.”
“I’m definitely doing that.”
Talking about her sex life with Hector La Rocha creeped her out. But she preferred this conversation over a discussion about trespassing in his private quarters.
“Thank you for letting me have this time with them,” she said. “They’re…nice. I know that’s not enough, and I’m still working on—”
“You’re distracting them.”
“What?”
“If they intend to take action against me or my cartel, their plan is going nowhere as long as you’re with them, keeping them preoccupied.”
Was that true? She hadn’t meant to distract them. She didn’t even know if they had a plan.
He swept his gaze over the bookshelves. “What are you looking for?”
“Non-fiction, I think.” She studied the Spanish titles on the spines, disinterested in the contents. “Something educational or—”
“You didn’t come here for a book, Petula.” The musical rhythm in his voice tingled a chill down her spine. “What are you looking for?”
This time, she couldn’t turn and look at him.
She couldn’t hide the perspiration forming on her skin, the tremors in her hands, or her inability to blink or form a coherent answer.
Lying would only dig her grave deeper. He saw straight through her.
Was he capable of hurting her? Definitely. Would he? She didn’t know.
“I sit through your meetings and hear you talk about trafficking drugs and weapons and all the wars over the smuggling routes.” She pulled in a shuddering breath and met his gentle eyes. “Why haven’t you mentioned trafficking humans or sexual slavery? I mean, all the other cartels do it.”
“Not all the cartels. In fact, the Restrepo Cartel in Colombia actively fights against it.” He clasped his hands behind his back and canted his head, scrutinizing her. “Human trafficking isn’t a lucrative business. I make more money in narcotics and guns.”
Alarmed by his response, she drew her head back. “If human slavery had better profit margins, you would do it?”
“I answered your question. Now answer mine.”
What are you looking for?
Deep down, she’d come here for more than an answer to the human trafficking accusation.
She was looking for validation that he was a good man. A man she could trust not to hurt her. She needed to know she hadn’t been wrong about him.
If he was willing to sell women into slavery for the right price, what was his intention with her?
“I’m looking for an answer.” She stared into his eyes. “Why am I the only female inmate in Area Three?”
“I’ve waited two years for you to ask that question.” He ambled toward the record player.
“I thought it was because I saved your life.” Her neck stiffened.
“That came after.” He lit a cigarette from his pocket and removed an album from the middle of the stack. “Do you know this one?” He held out Petula Clark’s Greatest Hits.
She shook her head. “She has an unusual first name.”
“Yes, she does. She’s been my favorite singer for as long as I can remember.” He extended the album toward her. “Go ahead.”
Tula just happened to share this woman’s name? That couldn’t have been a coincidence.
Her mind spun as she moved toward him, her steps laden with nerves. She lifted the record from his hand and reached inside the cardboard sleeve. Her fingers slid along the grooved surface of the vinyl and bumped papers.
She glanced at his unreadable expression and removed a handful of documents.
A smaller paper fluttered to the floor, and she reached for it.
And stopped.
Three photographed faces smiled up at her.
Her heart stuttered as she grabbed the photo and brought it closer to her eyes.