For Ana
Chapter One: The Skeletons in the Closet
Summer, 1999
The Chevy’s engine growled low as Christopher Williams
pulled his pickup to a stop outside Mateo Gonzalez’s house, three hours south
of the college town he’d left behind. The place sat low and stubborn—faded
whitewash, a porch sagging under a chipped Virgen de Guadalupe statue propped
against the rail. Mesquite claws scratched the windows, and a wind chime
clinked like dry bones in the heat. He killed the engine, silence swallowing
the rumble, and stepped out, boots crunching gravel. His trombone case rattled
in the truck bed, a quiet witness to the fight he’d come for.
He’d driven all this way for Elizabeth Gonzalez—her
jade-green eyes, her laugh, the kiss she’d left him with in the dorm lobby
before vanishing down the hill with her family. Mateo’s family, not his. Three
months since that goodbye, and every letter he’d sent came back unopened, every
call cut by a clipped voice or a dead line. This was his last play.
The door creaked open before he could knock, and Mateo
Gonzalez loomed in the frame—fifties, broad and solid, gray threading his black
hair, eyes sharp as flint under a lined brow. He wore a crisp dress shirt,
sleeves rolled up, a Dallas lawyer’s polish even out here. He gripped the jamb,
staring Christopher down like a trespasser in his courtroom.
“What the hell you doin’ here, boy?” Mateo’s voice was a low
growl, smooth with a border edge. “Thought I told you to stay away.”
“I need to see Elizabeth,” Christopher said, chin up, voice
steady despite the sweat on his neck. “I love her, sir, and I ain’t leavin’
till I do.”
Mateo’s lip curled. “Love? You? Some no-account horn-player
with nothin’ but a rusty truck and a fool’s dream? No hijo de puta strummer’s
gonna ruin my girl’s life.” He stepped closer, breath sharp with expensive
Scotch. “She’s got a future—college, a real career. Not wastin’ it with a
worthless musician who’ll never amount to shit.”
Christopher’s fists tightened, but he stood firm. “I don’t
care what you think of me. I care about her. That’s enough.”
Mateo laughed, cold and cutting. “Enough? Boy, I’ll make it
enough.” He ducked inside, rummaging, then shoved a thick envelope at
Christopher’s chest—cash, crisp and heavy. “Fifteen thousand dollars. Take it,
buy yourself a real life, and get the hell outta here. Let my Lizzie move on.”
The money hit like a slap, but Christopher didn’t flinch.
For a heartbeat, he saw her—Elizabeth on Paco, sunflower in her hair,
smiling—and his voice came raw. “No amount’d ever be enough to make me stop
loving her. You can’t buy that.”
Mateo’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of
something—respect?—crossing his face. Then it was gone. He stepped back,
reached beside the door, and hauled out a double-barrel shotgun, metal dull in
the porch light. He leveled it at Christopher’s chest, finger off the trigger
but close enough to mean it.
“You got two choices, pendejo,” Mateo said, voice hard as
steel. “Turn tail, or I shoot you where you stand. Or maybe I call the sheriff
instead—tell ‘em some loco’s trespassin’, harassin’ my family. Plenty of empty
holes out in that desert, though. I put you in one, no one’d ever find you.”
Christopher’s breath caught, sweat slicking his brow. The
gun stared him down, and that last threat—calm, precise, a lawyer’s
promise—chilled him deeper than the barrel. He saw it—Mateo’s will, unyielding
as the desert beyond. His hands shook as he took a step back, then another,
boots scuffing dirt. “You’re wrong about me,” he muttered, half to himself, and
turned for the truck. The door slammed shut, a gunshot of its own.
He drove blind for twenty minutes, dust swirling in the
headlights, until a neon sign blinked through the haze: Ruben’s. A squat adobe
bar hunched off the highway, its lot littered with pickups and tumbleweeds.
Inside, the air was thick with stale beer and smoke, Tejano music twanging from
a jukebox in the corner. Christopher slumped onto a cracked leather stool at
the bar, elbows heavy on the scarred wood.
Ruben Gonzalez ambled over—late thirties, lean and wiry, a
salt-and-pepper mustache over a mechanic’s hands still stained with faint
grease. The youngest of four Gonzalez brothers, he looked nothing like Mateo—no
polish, just grit. He slid a Shiner Bock across without asking. “Where you
from, kid? What brings you to this hole?”
Christopher gripped the beer, the cold glass grounding him.
“Up north. Came to find my love.”
Ruben chuckled, wiping a rag over the bar. “Love, huh?
That’s a devil’ll drag you down.” He leaned in, voice dropping like a
confessor. “Had me a girl once, down in Mexico. Stole my heart clean out my
chest. We were set to marry—church booked, dress ready. Three days before, she
bolts back across the border. I chased her, found her hitched to some rancher,
smilin’ like I never existed. Crawled into a tequila bottle for two years ‘til
my brother—Mateo, the bastard—kicked my ass straight. Quit fixin’ cars, reopened
this place, and here I am.” He tapped the bar, a faint grin tugging his lips.
“So, who’s the lucky lady got you lookin’ like a kicked dog?”
“Elizabeth,” Christopher said, the name a bruise he pressed
on purpose. “Elizabeth Gonzalez.”
Ruben froze, rag still in hand, then broke into a wide,
knowing grin. “You came here for my Lizzie? You must be Sir Christopher.” He
laughed, a warm rumble. “Yeah, my niece—Mateo’s girl—told me all about you. Sat
right there on that stool last night, nursin’ a Coke and talkin’ my ear off
‘bout some college boy with a trombone.”
Christopher’s heart lurched. “You’re her uncle?”
“Damn right,” Ruben said, pride in his nod. “Youngest of the
Gonzalez boys—Mateo’s the big shot, I’m the black sheep.” He popped another
Shiner, slid it over. “So, what’d my brother say when you showed up to steal
his daughter?”
“Told me I’m worthless,” Christopher said, staring into the
beer. “Said musicians don’t amount to nothin’. Offered me fifteen grand to
forget her. When I said no, he pulled a shotgun, threatened to shoot or call
the cops—said there’s holes in the desert no one’d find me in.”
Ruben whistled low, impressed. “That cheap bastard offered
you fifteen grand to forget my Lizzie? Mateo’s tighter’n a rattlesnake’s
ass—must’ve been scared shitless you’d win her over.” They drank in silence for
a minute, the jukebox crooning about lost love. Then Ruben leaned closer. “Tell
me ‘bout her—how’d you and Lizzie fall?”
Christopher talked—about the study group, the black dress,
Paco’s saddle, her smile—and Ruben listened, nodding like a priest taking
confession. Hours slipped by, beers stacking up, until the clock hit midnight
and the three-hour drive home loomed like a wall. Christopher stood, swaying a
little, and dug for his keys.
As he hit the door, Ruben called out, “Sir Christopher.” He
turned, and Ruben’s eyes were steady, sharp. “I’ll talk to Mateo—that cabrón
listens to me, sometimes. Come back in a week—I’ll let you know how it goes.
She’s worth it, kid.”
Christopher nodded, a spark of hope flaring in his chest.
“One week. I’ll be here.”
He stepped into the night, the neon buzzing behind him, and
drove north through the rough country, Elizabeth’s face burning in his mind.
Chapter Two: A Lost Love’s Embrace
March, 2012
The bedroom was a warzone of half-packed bags and sharper
words, the air heavy with strain as David Torres shoved a stack of pressed
shirts into a duffel. Elizabeth Gonzalez Torres stood by the dresser, arms
crossed, her jade-green eyes wet and fierce. At thirty-three, she was still
striking—black hair spilling over her shoulders, curves softened by
motherhood—but tonight, her voice trembled with raw need.
“You don’t have to take this assignment, David,” she said,
her tone sharp but pleading. “Our life’s fine as it is. We’ve got enough—why
chase more?”
David Torres, lean and precise at thirty-five, didn’t look
up from zipping the bag. His sax days were long gone, traded for a law clerk’s
edge. “This work could set us up for life, Liz—a good life. Out from under your
father’s damn shadow. You know how he rides me—‘not good enough for my
daughter.’ This is my shot.”
“Our life’s good now,” she snapped back. “We could move
anywhere in Texas with what we’ve got. You just wanted Mateo Gonzalez to mentor
you when you started out. And what about Erica? What kind of life is it for
her, an only child?”
He paused, hands still on the bag, then straightened. “We
can have another kid when I’m back. Eight months—it’s not forever.”
Elizabeth’s voice broke, tears spilling down her cheeks.
“Eight months? I want a baby now, David. I can’t wait that long.” She drew a
shaky breath, then threw the dagger she knew would strike deep. “Christopher
would give me another child. Maybe I should ask him.”
David’s head snapped up, jaw tight, eyes flashing dark.
“That drunk?” he spat, voice low and venomous. “He dropped out of school and
left the state. I don’t even know where he went, but he was a loser, wherever
he landed.”
Elizabeth’s tears turned to fire, her voice rising sharp and
cutting. “Don’t you ever say that about Christopher—you were practically
roommates before I came into the picture. You were brothers. You were just
jealous of him being better than you at music—destroyed your dreams, you told
me. He was always the better man, and he loved me. And you and my father saw to
it we’d never be together.”
David’s face twisted, fury boiling over. “You really think
you can win this argument now? Where’s Chris? Where? That’s right—he pops in
and out of your life and always makes you cry when you hear he’s around, like
you expect him to come rescue you from me and—”
Elizabeth cut him off, stepping closer, her stare a cold
flame burning with rage. “Give me what I want, or I will leave you and take
Erica with me. You’ll never see either of us again. I run in professional
circles too. Do you know what kind of rumors can spread in the medical
community? The kind that ruin a lawyer’s career. Give me what I want, or
Christopher will. He still loves me. Do you?”
David’s breath hitched, his hands clenching the duffel so
hard the zipper groaned. He glared at her, cornered, then dropped the bag with
a thud. “Fine,” he growled, voice tight with resentment. He pulled her to the
bed, movements stiff and cold. There was no passion, no love—just methodical,
efficient David, going through the motions. His hands were mechanical, his
breath clipped, and when it was over, he rolled onto his side, back to her, and
shut his eyes.
Elizabeth curled on her side, tears soaking the pillow. She
felt cheap, used—guilty for bending him with Christopher’s name, and gutted by
the act itself. David hadn’t made love to her; he’d had sex with her, a
transaction to spite her threat. Her sobs came quiet, muffled, as he slept
soundly beside her, oblivious or uncaring. She cried for hours, the ache in her
chest swelling with every echo of his indifference.
Around midnight, she slipped out of bed, bare feet padding
to Erica’s room. Her four-year-old slept peacefully, dark hair fanned across
the pillow, a small balm in the storm. Elizabeth lingered, then drifted to the
kitchen. She filled a kettle, hands trembling as she measured tea
leaves—sunflower petals sprinkled in, just like Christopher used to make. The
same tea she brewed every time she and David clashed, its warm, floral scent
curling through the air like a whisper of someone who’d truly loved her.
She sat at the table, cup cradled in her hands, staring into
the steam. Three years ago, she’d stood on Christopher’s porch, begging him to
take her, to give her a child—a piece of the man who still held her heart.
She’d pleaded, tears streaming, “If I can’t have you, at least let me have
something to remember you by.” But he’d held her, firm and gentle, and turned
her away. “Work it out with David Torres,” he’d said, his voice breaking. “He
deserves your loyalty.” She’d left with an ultimatum for David—give her what
she needed, or she’d find happiness with Christopher again.
Now, as the tea’s warmth seeped into her palms, she traced
those moments—Christopher’s arms around her, his refusal, the way he’d sent her
back into the night. She whispered into the quiet, voice soft and trembling,
repeating his words from 1999: “I will love you until the day I die.”
The morning light crept through the blinds, pale and
unforgiving, as Elizabeth stirred awake. The bed beside her was empty, the
sheets cold. She sat up, rubbing her eyes, and listened—no hum of David’s car
in the drive, no clink of his keys. He was gone. She pictured him steering
toward El Paso, dropping the sedan in the corporate parking center—locked up,
safe, untouchable for the next eight months on his Eastern Seaboard assignment.
Just like him.
She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, the ache from
last night still coiled in her chest. As she shuffled to the kitchen, her mind
churned. Christopher. She could go back—drive north, stand on his porch again,
plead her case. He’d turned her away before, but maybe now, with David gone,
he’d listen. Maybe he’d give her the child she craved, the love she’d lost. The
thought flickered, fierce and desperate—she wanted to be loved again, to feel
Sir Christopher’s arms around her, his lips on hers, the way it had been before
everything broke. That need burned brighter than the plan itself, a hunger she
couldn’t shake. It dimmed only when a small voice broke through.
“Mama?” Erica padded into the kitchen, her two-year-old
frame dwarfed by a nightgown, dark hair tangled from sleep. Her jade-green
eyes—her mother’s eyes, but with David’s steady look—burned with a tiny fire.
“Can we go riding?”
Elizabeth blinked, the longing softening but not fading. She
forced a smile. “Do you want to go right now?”
“Yes, Mama!” Erica’s voice piped up, bright and eager.
“Of course, Cica,” Elizabeth said, warmth threading through
her tone despite the ache. “Anything you want—your wish is my command.”
Erica squealed and darted off to get dressed, leaving
Elizabeth alone with the kettle’s dying steam. She exhaled, steadying herself,
and headed back to the bedroom. From the closet, she pulled her riding
boots—worn leather, scuffed from years with Paco—and a fresh pair of Wranglers.
She picked a pretty blue western shirt, its snap buttons glinting faintly, and
dressed quickly, the routine a fragile anchor against the pull of her heart.
As she tugged on the boots, her eyes caught something on her
pillow—a folded note, David’s tight scrawl on the front. She snatched it up,
fingers brushing the paper, then stopped. She didn’t need his words—not after
last night. Without opening it, she dropped it into the wastebasket by his side
of the bed, the soft thud final. Her gaze fell to the floor—his shorts and
shirt from last night, crumpled where he’d left them.
The memory hit her hard: his cold, methodical hands, the way
he’d used her, not loved her. Disgust curled her lip. She scooped them up and
flung them into the basket, burying the note beneath them. She wanted love—real
love, the kind Sir Christopher had given her, his kisses fierce and tender, his
arms a haven. David’s shadow could stay buried.
“Cica, you ready?” she called, shaking off the weight but
not the yearning. Erica bounded in, dressed in tiny jeans and a red shirt, her
fire undimmed. Elizabeth took her hand, and they stepped out into the morning,
David’s absence a cold void—but Christopher’s memory a flame she couldn’t
extinguish.
Chapter Three: Sunflowers in the Dust
March, 2012
The horse pens smelled of hay and earth as Elizabeth
Gonzalez Torres led Erica through the gate, the March wind kicking up dust that
stung her cheeks. She lifted her daughter onto Felix, her tall bay gelding,
settling Erica’s small frame just in front of the saddle. The two-year-old’s
jade-green eyes—her own hue, but steadied with David Torres’s quiet
intensity—sparkled under the pale sun as she gripped the reins with tiny,
fierce hands. Elizabeth swung up behind her, the leather creaking beneath them,
her arms bracketing Erica as she guided Felix into the ring.
Felix’s steady gait rocked them gently, a rhythm she’d clung
to since college—since Paco, since Christopher. She held Erica close, her
daughter’s warmth a fleeting balm against the ache from last night. The wind
carried a chill, but Erica’s giggles softened it, her joy a shield against the
cold memory of David’s hands, his note, his absence. Eight months stretched
ahead—empty, unyielding. Her mind drifted north again. Christopher. Three years
since he’d sent her away, yet his tea still lingered on her tongue, sunflower
petals in every sip. She wanted him—his arms around her, his lips on hers, the
love she’d lost.
In truth, Elizabeth only thought of Sir Christopher while
she was riding. After their first ride together in ‘99, she’d demanded a horse
and pens from David in 2004, once they’d graduated and started their
professional careers—her in her first residency as a doctor, him as a law
clerk. They’d been accepted into their initial postings, and she’d made David
buy her Felix and have the pens built, claiming it was for peace, for escape.
But it was a lie—she only thought of Christopher when she rode, his grin as he
handed her that sunflower, his hands steadying her on Paco. Eventually, she’d
started bringing Erica along, holding her close as they rode together, the
little girl’s laughter mingling with the ghosts of her past.
Erica pointed ahead, her small voice bright. “Mama, pretty
flowers!”
Elizabeth followed her gaze to a patch of sunflowers
clinging to the fence line, their yellow heads defiant in the dry earth. “Yes,
baby,” she said, a faint smile tugging her lips. “Those are sunflowers—Mama’s
favorite.”
“Did Sir Christopher pick you sunflowers?” Erica asked, her
eyes wide with curiosity.
Elizabeth’s breath caught, the memory crashing over her. She
saw him—Christopher, riding Paco that day in ‘99, leaning from the saddle to
scoop a sunflower from the scrub. He’d handed it to her with that shy grin,
stealing her heart in a single move. But he’d waited, stubborn and slow, nearly
four months to say he loved her. When he finally did, he kissed her and they
made love twice—always so tender and passionate, a whirlwind she could never
escape. The final kiss in the lobby was both of their longings for each other
with the promise to see each other again, fierce and desperate, leaving her
breathless and staggering as they parted. She’d clutched his picture in the
car, crying the whole three hours home, then run to her room, slammed the door,
and wept herself to sleep. “Till the day I die” echoed in her memories, and her
heart ached for that love and devotion.
“Faster, Mama!” Erica’s voice snapped her back, bright and
insistent. Elizabeth nudged Felix into a trot, holding her daughter tighter as
the gelding’s stride quickened. Erica’s laughter rang out, sharp against the
quiet pens, and Elizabeth clung to it, letting it fill the hollow. But the
sunflowers burned in her vision, a stubborn echo of Christopher—of his love,
his touch, his promise. She could go today, pack a bag, drive north with Erica
in tow. Plead again. Or call Ruben Gonzalez—her uncle might know where he was.
Felix snorted, tossing his head, and Elizabeth steadied him,
her grip firm on the reins. The dust swirled, a gritty veil, and the road north
burned in her chest, fueled by the ache to be held and kissed by Sir
Christopher again.
Elizabeth slowed Felix to a walk, her arms tightening around
Erica as the little girl leaned forward, patting the gelding’s mane. The
sunflowers swayed in the breeze, their brightness a cruel tease against the
gray ache inside her. She could still feel that kiss—Christopher’s lips, urgent
and warm, the way he’d held her like she was the only thing that mattered.
David’s touch last night had been a mockery of it, a hollow shell that left her
colder than before. She needed more than this—more than a life of waiting, of
burying notes and pretending.
“Mama, can we pick one?” Erica asked, twisting to look up at
her, eyes gleaming with that fierce spark.
Elizabeth hesitated, then nodded. “Sure, baby.” She guided
Felix toward the fence, easing him to a stop. She slid off first, boots hitting
the dirt, then lifted Erica down, her small weight a tether to the present.
They stepped to the sunflowers, and Elizabeth plucked one, its stem rough
against her fingers. She handed it to Erica, who clutched it with both hands,
beaming.
“For you, Mama!” Erica thrust it back, and Elizabeth took
it, the yellow petals brushing her palm. She pressed it to her chest, the scent
faint but sharp, and her resolve hardened. She couldn’t keep living like
this—half-alive, yearning for a love she’d let slip away. Christopher was out
there, somewhere north, maybe still waiting. She’d find him. She’d go today,
after this ride, and take Erica with her. Ruben Gonzalez would know—he always
knew more than he let on.
“Let’s head back, Cica,” she said, voice steady now, the
decision settling like a stone. She lifted Erica back onto Felix, then climbed
up behind her, the sunflower tucked into her shirt pocket. Felix plodded toward
the gate, and Elizabeth’s mind raced—pack a bag, call Ruben from the road,
drive north until she found him. She’d stand on his porch again, look into
those cloudy blue eyes, and ask for what she’d always wanted: his love, his
touch, his forever. But then a thought tugged at her—Mama, her mother, Maria
Gonzalez. She could ask Mama to look after Erica while she “ran some errands.”
Maria had seen Christopher kiss her that day in the dorm
lobby, had watched her daughter stumble away, breathless and torn. She’d known
about Elizabeth’s endless tears over her first real love, had even scolded
Mateo for sending the boy away with a shotgun and threats. “A man who kisses a
woman like that,” Maria had said once, her voice soft but firm, “is one in a
thousand, one in a million.” Elizabeth remembered growing up in a house where
her parents danced in the kitchen, Mateo twirling Maria while she and her
sisters giggled. Her father would hold her mother tenderly, kissing her and
whispering “mi corazón,” his eyes warm with a love that never faded. Mama would
understand, even if Elizabeth didn’t tell her the truth—just a last-minute
review at the hospital, a patient calling, something routine. It happened
enough, and her parents adored having Erica, their only grandchild, to spoil
with affection. Maybe soon, Elizabeth thought, she could bring them another
grandchild to dote on. Maybe.
Felix’s hooves thudded against the dirt as they neared the
stable, and Elizabeth tightened her grip on Erica, the sunflower pressing
against her chest. No, she wouldn’t call Ruben. Nobody should know what she had
planned to do. This would be her burden. If Christopher broke her heart and
sent her away, she’d swallow her pride and accept David back—if he ever wanted
her again. She’d cry, of course, but she had eight months to dry those tears.
Surely Christopher wouldn’t turn her away again. He’d been so torn when she’d
first asked him to make love to her three years ago. She’d felt his want—read
it in every word, sensed it as he held her on that couch, his arms trembling
with restraint. But he’d done the honorable thing, as always, refusing to let
her be tempted and corrupted. Her happiness meant more to him than his own
life. “Until the day I die” still rang in her head, a promise she clung to.
She was confused by a broken heart and the hope that her
original love waited three hours away. Was he even home? Had he left again? She
didn’t know. But she was determined to find out. He’d promised to give her what
David would not—did that promise still stand? Of course it does, she thought,
shaking the doubt from her mind. Sir Christopher would give her anything she
asked for. He loved her, she knew it—a love like no other. Sir Christopher was
incorruptible, but his love for her had endured twelve years. That wasn’t so
long to wait for the love of your life, was it?
As she began to lead Felix into his pen, loosening the
saddle and lifting off the blanket, her resolve crystallized. She’d go back to
Christopher and confront him. If he said no, she’d drop it, let the dream die.
But if he said yes, the passion and longing from twelve years would flood her
heart, filling the void David’s life had carved. Of course he’d be there. This
was how it was supposed to be. She unbuckled the girth, her hands steady now,
and slid the saddle off Felix’s back, setting it on the rack. Erica scampered
to the gate, still clutching the sunflower stem she’d picked, and Elizabeth
followed, her steps firm. She’d drop Erica at Maria’s, use the hospital excuse,
and drive north alone. No calls, no clues—just her and the road, chasing a love
that had never let her go.
Chapter Four: Reopening Old Wounds
March, 2012
The sun bled red over the horizon as Elizabeth Gonzalez
Torres pulled away from her parents’ house, Erica’s small silhouette fading in
the rearview mirror beside Maria Gonzalez on the porch. She’d fed her mother
the hospital line—urgent patient review, home by midnight—and Maria had
swallowed it, her warm eyes trusting as she scooped Erica up. The lie gnawed at
Elizabeth, but the sunflower in her shirt pocket burned brighter, a quiet fire
driving her north. The Corolla’s engine thrummed steady through the West Texas
scrub—mesquite claws snagging the dusk, dust swirling in her wake. Three hours
to Christopher. Three hours to claw back what David Torres had hollowed out.
She hit his street as evening deepened, the college town’s
edges smudged by twilight. His house squatted there—peeling brick, solar panels
dulled by years, the trombone case rusted shut on the porch swing—but the
driveway yawned empty, his beat-up Chevy gone. No light spilled from the
windows, no sign of life. She idled there, heart hammering, the silence a fist
around her chest. He wasn’t home.
Frustration flared, hot and sharp. She’d come too far to
turn back, too far to let this slip. Where would he be? Not Ruben Gonzalez’s
bar, three hours south. Then it clicked—Crystal’s, the rundown bar off the
highway, far west of campus. He’d mentioned it once, a haunt for strays and
musicians, a stage for bleeding hearts. If he was anywhere, it’d be there,
pouring himself out like he always did.
She gunned the engine, tires spitting gravel, and made the
five-minute drive. Crystal’s crouched low under a flickering neon sign, its lot
a graveyard of pickups and rust. Beyond it stretched nothing—cattle country,
coyotes too bold for their own good, the town’s pulse fading to a whisper. She
parked near the back, the Corolla dwarfed by mud-caked trucks, and stepped out.
The air hit her—stale beer, smoke, and the faint twang of a guitar leaking
through the open door. Her boots crunched dirt as she approached, the sunflower
a soft weight against her chest.
Inside, Crystal’s was a smoky haze—scarred tables, wood
walls plastered with tattered flyers, couples and friends huddled close. The
stage glowed dim in the corner, and there he was—Christopher Williams,
thirty-six, leaner than she’d last seen, brown hair shaggy with streaks of
gray. No trombone tonight; he gripped a battered acoustic guitar, fingers
coaxing a slow, aching tune. His flannel hung loose over jeans, his face etched
with new lines, but his voice—rougher, richer—cut through the din like a blade.
Patsy Cline’s Faded Love spilled from him, heavy with a longing he didn’t know
she’d hear:
“I miss you darlin’, more and more every day,
As heaven would miss the stars above…”
Elizabeth slid to a back table, half-shrouded by the crowd,
and sank into a chair. The room blurred—couples swaying, a grizzled man nursing
a beer, a waitress wiping down a tray—but his voice pinned her. She didn’t need
to see his cloudy blue eyes to know he was singing about her. The years, the
silence, David’s cold touch—all of it dissolved under those words, his heart
laid bare. Tears stung her eyes, spilling hot as she pressed a hand to her
mouth, muffling a sob. The sunflower trembled against her, and she saw
him—Paco’s saddle, that shy grin, the flower he’d handed her in ‘99. He hadn’t
seen her from the stage—no reason he’d expect her here, in this off-campus
dive—but she felt him all the same.
The song faded, notes hanging like smoke, and the room
erupted—claps, hoots, a slurred “damn fine.” Christopher dipped his head, a
ghost of a smile tugging his lips, and set the guitar against the mic stand. He
stepped off, weaving to the bar, and Elizabeth’s pulse roared. She wiped her
face, stood on shaky legs, and started toward him—but he was already moving,
grabbing a Shiner Bock and slipping out the back door.
She hesitated, then followed, threading through the crowd,
the sunflower her guide. Outside, the night was sharp—crickets chirping, a
coyote yipping in the distance, the bar’s murmurs spilling faint through the
walls. Christopher sat on his truck’s tailgate, the old Chevy parked crooked in
the lot, its paint chipped and faded. He took a swig of beer, the bottle
glinting in the faint glow from Crystal’s sign, and set his guitar back into
its battered case with a quiet thud. The bartender’s voice drifted out,
announcing the next act—Luke Ledbetter, brash and full of himself, with a voice
to match his strut. Christopher knew him, had heard him play. Kid had lessons,
no doubt—polished where Christopher was raw, self-taught from a chord book
until the strings sang like instinct. Every instrument came to him that way, a
gift he’d honed alone.
He took another pull, the beer cold against the ache in his
throat. One more song tonight, one more beer, then home. Crystal’s had a
deal—play when they asked, drink for free. They’d toss him a case if he wanted,
but he didn’t. Just enough to wet his mouth, to drown the dust and the memory
of Elizabeth. For a second, he swore he caught her scent—rose petals, faint and
sweet—but he shook it off, blaming the beer or the night. She was three hours
south, locked away by Mateo Gonzalez, then David Torres. Not here.
Elizabeth stood frozen at the door, watching him on that
tailgate, alone with his beer and his ghosts. The crickets sang louder than her
heartbeat, but the tears wouldn’t stop. He hadn’t seen her, didn’t know she’d
come, and that made it worse—his song wasn’t a plea to her face, but a wound
he’d carried all these years. She stepped forward, boots scuffing gravel, her
voice trembling but firm. “Sir Christopher.”
He stiffened, bottle pausing mid-air, then turned slow, like
a man hearing a ghost. His cloudy blue eyes found hers—shock first, then a
flood of something deeper, love and grief tangled tight. “Elizabeth—Liz?” he
rasped, the name trailing with a sharp twinge of pain as he saw her, the bottle
clinking to the tailgate, forgotten. His voice barely cut the night, raw with
disbelief.
She nodded, tears streaming now, and closed the gap. “I
heard you sing. I had to come.”
He stared, the crickets filling the silence, his hand
twitching like he might reach for her but didn’t dare. “Why now,
Elizabeth—Liz?” he asked, the pain cutting through as her presence hit him, her
name a broken echo from ‘99.
Her words hung fragile in the night air, but Christopher’s
cloudy blue eyes sliced through them—sharp, raw, a storm of pain that stole her
breath. Twelve years of longing and loss burned there, and it hit her like a
fist, drying her mouth to sand as she fumbled for something to say. The
sunflower pressed against her chest, its scent a cruel tease, mocking her
silence.
“What’s so goddamned important that you track me down to
this crumbling adobe bar, Elizabeth?” he asked, voice low and rough, edged with
a bitterness that cut deep. He leaned forward on the tailgate, beer bottle
loose in his hand, his gaze pinning her to the gravel.
“I—” she started, the sound scraping out, a shock to her own
ears. She hadn’t expected her voice to hold, not with her heart slamming like
this, but it trembled free. “I need you, Christopher. I need—”
He cut her off, standing sharp, the tailgate groaning under
the shift. The bottle clinked hard against the truck bed, and he stepped
closer, close enough she could smell the beer on his breath, the dust and sweat
on his skin. “I want no part of this, Elizabeth,” he growled, hard and
unyielding, his eyes flashing with a mix of anger and grief. “You’re a married
woman, Elizabeth—Liz,” the name slipped out with a twinge of pain as her plea
stirred him, “and I want no part of whatever scheme you’ve got in mind.”
“Sir Christopher, I—” She reached for him, her hand hovering
near his arm, the old title slipping out soft and pleading, a reflex from ‘99
that stung them both.
“Don’t,” he snapped, stepping back, boots scuffing the dirt.
His voice cracked, sharp and jagged. “Don’t call me that, Elizabeth. Not now.
You don’t get to just waltz in and out of my life every few years, bat those
jade eyes, shed a few tears, and drag me into the middle of your marriage with
David Torres. Do you know how terrible it is to be used for leverage so you can
get what you want from your husband? It’s a shitty thing for me to go along
with, and how do you think it makes you look?”
Her tears welled fast, hot and heavy, spilling down her
cheeks as his words landed like blows. She pressed a hand to her mouth,
muffling a sob, but she didn’t wipe them away. “It’s not like that,” she
whispered, voice breaking. “David’s gone—eight months, East Coast. Last night
he… he didn’t love me, Christopher. He used me, and I can’t—” She choked, the
memory of David’s cold, mechanical hands clawing at her, the note she’d buried
under his clothes. “I need to feel loved again. Like you loved me. I need you.”
He stared at her, the crickets fading to a drone, the bar’s
murmurs a distant hum. His jaw tightened, a muscle twitching under the scruff,
and for a moment, she thought he’d turn away—climb into his truck and leave her
there, broken in the dust. But he didn’t. His eyes softened, just a flicker,
and he dragged a hand through his shaggy hair, exhaling rough like he’d been
holding it too long.
“I don’t have time for this nonsense, Elizabeth,” he said,
voice quieter now, raw with the weight of years. “I have a gig to play and beer
to drink. You have a family to go back to, Elizabeth—Liz,” the name broke with
a soft ache as her desperation sank in, “I have nothing but an empty home and
cold beer and the few songs I sing. But you chose him. You left. And I ain’t
some backup plan you run to when your husband turns cold.”
“I didn’t choose him,” she shot back, stepping closer, her
boots crunching gravel. “My father, Mateo Gonzalez, did—shotgun and threats,
you know that. I loved you, Christopher. I still—” She stopped, the words too
big, too dangerous, but they hung there anyway, trembling between them.
He looked away, out toward the dark sprawl of cattle
country, the coyotes yipping faint in the distance. “You got a kid now,
Elizabeth,” he said, almost to himself. “A life. What am I supposed to do with
that? Break it all apart ‘cause you’re hurtin’?”
“Erica’s with my mom,” she said quick, desperate. “I came
alone. I just… I need you to hold me again. To kiss me like you did. To give me
what he won’t.” Her voice cracked, the plea spilling out raw and unfiltered.
“Please, Christopher.”
He turned back, eyes searching hers, and the pain there
mirrored her own—two hearts battered by time, still bleeding for each other.
The bar door swung open behind them, Luke Ledbetter’s voice rolling out, brash
and smooth, but it barely registered. Christopher’s hand twitched again, like
it ached to touch her, but he held it at his side, clenched tight.
“I’ve got one more song, Elizabeth,” he said finally, voice
low, strained. “Then we talk. Not here—not with half the damn town listenin’.
My place. You follow me, or you don’t. Your call.”
He grabbed his guitar case, brushing past her toward the
door, the scent of him—beer, dust, and something woody—lingering in his wake.
Elizabeth stood there, tears drying on her cheeks, the sunflower a quiet pulse
against her chest. The truck’s tailgate gleamed dull under the neon, and she
knew—she’d follow. She had to.
Chapter Five: Family Secrets
Summer, 1999
The Chevy’s engine growled low as Christopher Williams
pulled off the highway, three hours south of the college town he’d left behind
in a haze of dust and heartbreak. The sun sank red over the scrubland, painting
Ruben Gonzalez’s bar in streaks of fading light—squat adobe hunched off the
road, its neon sign blinking through the dusk like a tired heartbeat.
Tumbleweeds snagged in the lot’s edges, and the faint twang of Tejano music
leaked from within. He killed the engine, the silence swallowing the rumble,
and stepped out, boots crunching gravel. His trombone case rattled in the truck
bed, a quiet reminder of the life he’d gambled on Elizabeth—and lost.
Two weeks since he’d last stood on her porch, three months
since her goodbye—her jade-green eyes wet with tears, that final kiss in the
dorm lobby burning his lips as she’d stumbled to her mother’s car, clutching
his picture. Two weeks of sleepless nights, letters returned unopened, calls
unanswered, and a promise from Ruben to talk to his brother, Mateo Gonzalez.
That promise was all he had left, a thin thread of hope dragging him back to
this hole-in-the-wall bar for answers.
He pushed through the door, the air thick with stale beer
and smoke, the jukebox crooning a lonesome tune. Ruben Gonzalez stood behind
the bar, wiping a glass with a rag, but his face stopped Christopher
cold—bruised and scarred, a black eye blooming dark under the dim lights, a
fresh gap where a tooth used to be. The bar was half-empty, a few locals
nursing drinks, but Ruben’s grin split wide when he saw Christopher, showing
that missing tooth like a trophy.
“You should see the other guy!” Ruben laughed, a warm rumble
that cut through the tension, his salt-and-pepper mustache twitching with
amusement.
“What happened?” Christopher asked, worry creasing his brow
as he slid onto a stool, the bar’s scarred wood cool under his elbows.
Ruben set the glass down, leaning in, his grin fading to a
rueful smirk. “I went to speak to Mateo Gonzalez. It got pretty heated—he said
somethin’ ‘bout my sweet Corina, so I hit him. He hit me. We rolled around on
the ground like fools.” He shrugged, picking up another glass to wipe. “Ain’t
the first time my brother and I fought, and it won’t be the last, either.”
Christopher’s jaw tightened, hope flickering faint.
“Corina—the girl from Mexico?”
“Yeah,” Ruben said, his voice softening for a beat, then
hardening again. “Mateo’s got a mouth when he’s mad—knows where to stick the
knife. I threw the first punch, but he gave as good as he got. Bastard’s still
got a hell of a right hook.”
“Did he say anything about Elizabeth?” Christopher pressed,
leaning forward, his voice low but urgent.
Ruben’s grin faded, his good eye narrowing as he studied
Christopher. “Not much. He’s dug in—won’t budge. Said she’s movin’ on, got
plans for her, and you’re a ghost he’s already buried. I told him you’re a good
kid, that you love her, but he ain’t hearin’ it. Thinks you’re a dead-end,
Chris. I’m sorry.”
Christopher’s fists clenched on the bar, the weight of it
sinking in. “He’s keeping her from me,” he said, voice rough. “I tried—two
weeks ago. Went to the house. He sent me packing.”
Ruben whistled low, impressed despite the grimness. “That
cheap cabrón didn’t tell me that part. Probably knew I’d break his damn jaw if
he did.” He slid a Shiner Bock across the bar without asking, the bottle cold
against Christopher’s palm. “What’d he do—wave that shotgun of his?”
“Somethin’ like that,” Christopher muttered, staring into
the beer, the foam bubbling slow. “Said there’s holes in the desert no one’d
find me in.”
“Maybe he meant it,” Ruben said, leaning on the bar, his
bruised face serious now. “But I ain’t done tryin’. He’s my brother—I’ll wear
him down. Give it time, kid. She’s worth it, right?”
Christopher nodded, the beer untouched, Elizabeth’s
face—sunflower in her hair, jade eyes sparkling—burning behind his eyes. “Yeah.
She’s worth it.”
Ruben clapped his shoulder, the grip firm despite the black
eye. “Then hang on. I’ll keep at him. Come back in a month—I’ll have somethin’
for you.”
Christopher took a swig, the cold washing down the ache, but
not the doubt. Mateo Gonzalez’s wall stood tall, and Ruben’s fight—bruises and
all—might not be enough. The secret of that night, whatever Mateo had done to
keep Elizabeth locked away, stayed buried, but it was cracking open, one
brother’s fist at a time.
Chapter Six: More Family Secrets
March, 2012
The neon buzz of Crystal’s faded behind Elizabeth Gonzalez
Torres as she slid into her Corolla, the engine coughing to life with a
reluctant sputter. Christopher’s Chevy rumbled ahead, its taillights glowing
red through the dust, a beacon she couldn’t ignore. Her hands trembled on the
wheel, the sunflower still pressed against her chest, its petals bruised but
stubborn. She followed him, the five-minute drive stretching into an
eternity—past the bar’s cattle-strewn outskirts, through the college town’s quiet
streets, until his truck turned into the familiar gravel drive. The house
loomed ahead, weathered and silent, a relic of the life he’d built without her.
He climbed out, guitar case in hand, and didn’t look back as
he unlocked the door. Elizabeth parked beside him, the Corolla’s headlights
cutting briefly across the porch before she killed the engine. The night
pressed in—crickets, a distant train whistle, the faint rustle of mesquite in
the breeze. She stepped out, boots crunching gravel, and followed him inside,
the door creaking shut behind her with a finality that made her stomach twist.
The living room smelled of cinnamon and old wood, a faint
whiff of cologne clinging to the air—worn, woody, his. Books spilled across a
sagging shelf, a gas station calendar with the Budweiser girls on it hung
crooked by the door, and a recliner sat worn and solitary, its leather patched
with time. Christopher set the guitar case against the wall, his movements
deliberate, then turned to face her. Those cloudy blue eyes held hers, still
sharp with pain, but softer now, like the fight had drained out of him.
“Sit, Elizabeth,” he said, voice gruff but not unkind,
nodding to a faded couch. He shuffled to the kitchen, the linoleum scuffing
under his boots, and returned with two mismatched glasses of iced tea,
sunflower petals floating lazy on the surface. He handed her one, the cold
glass a shock against her palm, and sank into the recliner across from her.
“You’re here, Elizabeth. Talk.”
Elizabeth took a sip, the sweet floral bite jolting her back
to ‘99—his tea, their tea, a memory she couldn’t shake. Her throat tightened,
but she forced the words out, raw and unsteady. “David Torres is gone,
Christopher. Eight months on the East Coast. Last night, we fought—he wouldn’t
give me another child, said we’d wait. I told him I’d come to you, that you’d
give me what he wouldn’t. He… he took me to bed, but it wasn’t love. It was
cold, mechanical. I felt like nothing.” She looked down, tears pricking her
eyes, the glass trembling in her hands. “I can’t live like that. I need
you—your arms, your kiss. I need to feel something again.”
He stared at her, the tea untouched in his grip, his jaw
tight. “You think I can just fix that, Elizabeth? Step in and play house ‘cause
David Torres is a bastard?” His voice was low, strained, each word measured.
“I’ve got nothin’, Elizabeth—Liz,” he rasped, the name slipping out with a
twinge of pain as her words cut deep, “this—” he gestured vaguely at the room,
the empty walls, the silence—“this is it. You’ve got a daughter, a husband, a
life. What the hell am I supposed to do with that?”
“I don’t want you to fix it,” she said, leaning forward, her
voice rising with desperation. “I want you to love me. Like you did before.
I’ve never stopped loving you, Christopher. Every time I ride Felix, every
sunflower I see—it’s you. David’s my husband, but you’re my heart. My father,
Mateo Gonzalez, took you from me, and I’ve been paying for it ever since.”
He exhaled sharp, setting the glass on the cluttered console
beside him, the tea sloshing over the rim. “You don’t know what you’re askin’,
Elizabeth,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. “I went to your
house, summer of ‘99. Drove three hours south, stood on your porch with my
trombone case like some damn fool. Mateo Gonzalez met me with a shotgun—offered
me fifteen grand to disappear, then threatened to bury me in the desert if I
didn’t. Ruben Gonzalez talked him down later, said he’d work on him, but by
then you were gone. Engaged to David Torres. I didn’t have a chance.”
Elizabeth’s breath hitched, her eyes widening. “You came for
me, Christopher?” The words came out soft, almost a whisper, her mind reeling.
“Ruben never told me. My father—he burned your letters, wouldn’t let me near
the phone. I thought you’d given up.”
“Given up, Elizabeth?” He laughed, a dry, bitter sound that
didn’t reach his eyes. “I drank myself stupid that fall, nearly dropped out.
David Torres was my friend—hell, we played together, got drunk together. He
knew I loved you, and he still took you. I saw you with him at Homecoming that
year, all smiles, and it gutted me. I left Texas after that, ran north ‘til I
couldn’t feel it anymore. Came back three years ago, and you showed up cryin’
on my porch, Elizabeth—Liz,” the name broke with a sharp ache as he remembered,
“beggin’ me to take you. I sent you back to him. Told you to work it out. And
now you’re here again.”
Her tears spilled over, hot and silent, tracing paths down
her cheeks. “I didn’t know,” she said, voice breaking. “I thought you’d moved
on. That night three years ago—I wanted you so bad, Christopher. I begged you
to give me a child, something of you to hold onto. You said no, and I went back
to David because I had to. But it’s never been right. He’s jealous of
you—always has been. Told me you were better than him, at music, at loving me.
It’s why he’s so cold now.”
Christopher leaned back, his eyes distant, fixed on some
point beyond her. “David Torres said that, Elizabeth?” He shook his head, a
faint smirk tugging his lips. “We dated twin redheads once, ‘98. Double dates,
laughin’ like fools. Then we got plastered at La Kiva in Terlingua, woke up in
an ant hill, itchin’ like hell. He was my brother ‘til you came along. Guess I
stole his thunder—sax, trombone, you. Didn’t mean to.”
She set her glass down, the clink loud in the quiet, and
stood, crossing to him. “You didn’t steal anything,” she said, voice fierce
despite the tears. “I gave myself to you. And I’m here now, asking you to take
me back. Not for leverage, not for David—for me. For us.”
He looked up at her, his hand twitching on the armrest, and
for a moment, the room shrank—just them, the cinnamon air, the weight of twelve
years. “You don’t know what you’re diggin’ up, Elizabeth—Liz,” he said, the
name trailing with a twinge of pain as her closeness stirred old wounds,
“family secrets don’t stay buried. You’ve got Erica—what happens when this
blows up? When David Torres finds out?”
“Erica’s safe,” she said, kneeling beside him, her hand
brushing his knee. “David’s gone ‘til November. I don’t care what he finds
out—I can’t keep living half-dead. I need you, Christopher. Please.”
He stared at her, the pain in his eyes hardening into
something colder, more resolute. His hand froze over hers, then pulled back,
leaving her touch unanswered. “No,” he said finally, voice flat and final, like
a door slamming shut. “Go home, Elizabeth. Go back home to your family. You
have a life and a future with him. For once, I agree with your father, bastard
that he is. Go home. There’s nothin’ left for you here—just a drunk tryin’ to
forget you.”
Her breath caught, shock flashing across her face, then fury.
“Fuck you,” she spat, standing sharp, tears streaking her cheeks. “You steal my
heart and make me cry for months over you, and when I need you now, you—”
“Go home, Liz,” he cut in, the name a raw, pained rasp—rare,
deliberate, heavy with hurt she hadn’t heard before. She froze, knowing he
never called her that unless the wound ran deep. “I’ve got important drinkin’
to do. If you come back, I’ll leave. Or maybe I should just go ahead and leave
now—or get extra drunk and see what fate has to say about it.”
“Are you not even gonna give me a chance?” she demanded,
voice breaking, her jade eyes blazing through the tears.
“Go home, Elizabeth,” he said, standing now, his tone
turning dark, edged with a threat that chilled her. “Or I’ll finish the job
your father started with that shotgun.”
The room stilled, his words hanging like a blade between
them. His cloudy blue eyes locked on hers, unyielding, the pain there now a
wall she couldn’t breach. Elizabeth’s breath hitched, her hand dropping from
his knee, the sunflower trembling against her chest. She stared at him, tears
streaming, then turned, boots scuffing the floor as she fled to the door. It
slammed behind her, echoing through the night, leaving Christopher alone with
the calendar girls, the tea, and the ghosts he couldn’t drown.
Chapter Seven: Erica’s Burden
Summer, 2045
Erica Ramirez gripped the wheel of her ‘39 Hyundai, the hum
of its hybrid engine a steady pulse beneath the Dallas-bound highway’s roar.
The outer edge of the city loomed ahead, skyscrapers glinting under the late
afternoon sun, their glass facades streaked with solar film—a 2045 upgrade to
beat the Texas heat. She was still an hour out from Ana’s place in Oak Cliff,
the dashboard clock ticking past 4:00 p.m. Traffic would be a beast, the
afternoon rush clogging I-20 even with the self-driving lanes, but Erica didn’t
care. This was her duty as the oldest sister, a burden she’d carried since
she’d cracked open her mother’s diary three weeks ago—a burden heavier now with
Mateo and Lisa waiting back home with Javier, and the ghosts of her parents’
wreck haunting every mile.
The leather seat creaked as she shifted, her jade-green
eyes—her mother’s eyes, though steadier, like David Torres’s—flicking to the
passenger seat. There it sat: the diary, its cover worn soft from years of
Elizabeth Gonzalez Torres’s hands, pages yellowed and curling at the edges.
Erica had found it buried in a box of her mother’s things at Maria’s house
after her grandmother’s passing last month, tucked beneath a faded sunflower
and a photo of Elizabeth on Felix, smiling with a younger Erica in the saddle.
She’d read it cover to cover, her breath catching at every mention of “Sir
Christopher”—the man who’d haunted her mother’s heart, a name she’d heard in
whispers before the crash that took both her parents in ‘22. And then, the
entry from March 2012: “He said no again. Sent me home to David. But I felt
it—his love, his want. If there’s another child, it’ll be his. I’ll make sure
of it.”
Erica’s knuckles whitened on the wheel, her mind looping
back to Christopher’s words from five years ago. It was 2040, eighteen years
after the wreck, when he’d reached out—his voice raspy over the phone, worn by
time and whiskey. “Erica—Kee-kuh,” he’d said, stumbling over her nickname like
it hurt to say it. “That truth is for your sister, not you.” He’d told her
about a book on his shelf, one he’d written for her, locked in his house in
that college town three hours west. “It’s got more details ‘bout you and Ana’s
life—things you might wanna know. But only read it if you must know the truth.
Decide for yourself if Ana should hear it. That’s all I got left to give.” Then
the line went dead, and she hadn’t heard from him since.
The Hyundai’s dashboard pinged—a traffic alert flashing on
the screen, suggesting a detour through Mesquite. Erica swiped it away,
sticking to manual drive. She needed the control, the feel of the road under
her hands as she wrestled with what she’d pieced together. Ana, born in late
2012, nine months after that diary entry—just months before the crash that left
her and Ana orphaned. David Torres away on the East Coast until November.
Christopher’s rejection—but had it held? The math lined up too damn well, and
the diary’s longing screamed what Elizabeth hadn’t lived to confess. Ana might
be Christopher’s, not David’s. Her sister—half-sister?—carrying a secret their
mother took to the grave when that truck T-boned their car on I-10 in ‘22,
leaving Erica, 12, and Ana, 9, to Maria’s care.
Erica’s throat tightened, Christopher’s warning echoing
louder now. “That truth is for your sister, not you.” What the hell did that
mean? That she, Erica, was David’s, safe in the Torres line, while Ana was the
outlier? Or that Ana deserved to know first, to carry it herself? She’d turned
it over a thousand times since that call, but the diary had tipped the scale.
She couldn’t sit on this—not when Ana, at thirty-two, was building a life in
Dallas with Ben, her firefighter husband with the Dallas FD, oblivious to the
fault line under their family. A pediatric nurse, married two years, no kids
yet—stable, steady Ana, who’d clung to Erica through those raw years after the
wreck, when Maria and Mateo tried to fill the void left by Elizabeth and David.
Meanwhile, Erica, thirty-five, a vet tech in San Angelo, had her own life—her
husband, Javier Ramirez, steadying her chaos, and their kids, Mateo and Lisa,
tethering her to something solid. Mateo, seven, all fire and questions like his
granddad David, and Lisa, five, quiet but fierce like Elizabeth. They were why
she’d hesitated, why she’d kept the diary locked in her desk until Maria’s
death forced her to face it. But this wasn’t a truth she could bury—not
anymore.
The highway slowed, brake lights flaring red ahead as
traffic thickened. She tapped the wheel, impatient, her mind drifting to that
book. She hadn’t gone for it—not in 2040, when Javier had urged her to let it
lie for the kids’ sake, not after Christopher’s death in ‘45 at the cemetery,
slumped against Elizabeth’s grave. The house was still there, willed to some
distant cousin who’d never shown up, locked up and gathering dust. She could’ve
driven west, broken in, found that damn bookcase. But she hadn’t. Fear,
maybe—fear of what it’d say, of what it’d do to Ana, to Mateo and Lisa if the
truth unraveled their family too. Now, with the diary in hand, she didn’t need
it. She had enough.
A horn blared, jolting her back. The car ahead lurched
forward, and she followed, the city’s sprawl swallowing her bit by bit. She
rehearsed the words she’d say to Ana, each one heavier than the last. “I found
Mom’s diary. It’s about Christopher—Sir Christopher. He might be your father.”
No softening it, no way to ease into a bomb like that. Ana deserved the truth,
raw and unfiltered, but Christopher’s voice gnawed at her—“Decide for yourself
if Ana should know.” What if she shouldn’t? What if this shattered her sister’s
world, rippled back to San Angelo, to Mateo asking why Aunt Ana and Uncle Ben
didn’t visit anymore, to Lisa’s quiet eyes searching for answers Erica couldn’t
give?
Erica’s chest ached, the weight of it pressing down like the
Dallas heat seeping through the AC. She’d built a life—Javier’s steady hands
fixing her truck when it broke, Mateo’s chatter about vet school dreams, Lisa’s
drawings pinned to the fridge. When the wreck took her parents in ‘22, Erica
had stepped up, kept Ana steady through the grief, leaned on Maria and Mateo
until she could stand on her own. She’d married Javier years later, built
something solid for Mateo and Lisa—the stability she and Ana had lost. Now,
with Maria gone last month and Mateo long before, she was the anchor again. The
diary felt like a third crash, a secret clawing out of the wreckage to demand
reckoning, threatening the peace she’d fought for her family.
The skyline sharpened, the Fountain Place tower glinting
ahead as she hit the city’s outer loop. Traffic snarled tighter, a mix of
drones humming above and old-school cars like hers grinding below. She glanced
at the diary again, its cover mocking her with its quiet presence.
Christopher’s book might’ve spelled it out—dates, confessions, proof—but his
warning had held her back then, and now it was too late. He’d died at
sixty-seven, alone by that headstone, an unmarked urn tucked beside Elizabeth
Gonzalez Torres and David Torres in the San Angelo cemetery. No answers left to
give, just that echo: “That truth is for your sister, not you.”
She was forty minutes out now, the Hyundai crawling through
the mess of downtown. Ana’s house—a modest two-story off Davis Street—waited, a
place Erica had visited a dozen times since Ana and Ben, the Dallas
firefighter, bought it. She pictured Ana’s face, those softer jade eyes, the
way she’d laugh off stress with a quick “Cica’s got this,” Ben’s steady
presence at her side. Not this time. Erica’s duty was to carry this burden, to
lay it at Ana’s feet and let her decide what to do with it—to protect her own
kids from the fallout if it went south. But Christopher’s words twisted the
knife—“Decide for yourself if Ana should know.” She’d decided. Hadn’t she?
The diary’s weight pulled at her, a tether to 2012, to a
mother who’d loved too fiercely and a man who’d drowned in it, to a crash that
stole them both before the truth could settle. Erica’s jaw tightened, resolve
hardening as the city closed in. Traffic be damned—this was her sister, her
blood, her truth to share. Ana could handle it, or she couldn’t. Either way,
Erica Ramirez wouldn’t carry it alone anymore—not with Mateo and Lisa depending
on her to come home whole. After all, Ana was still her mother's daughter and
her mother was strong.
Chapter Eight: The Urn
Summer, 2045
The Pineview Cemetery stretched quiet under the late summer
sun, its rows of headstones glinting in the heat on the edge of the college
town, four hours southwest of San Angelo by old-world reckoning, the air thick
with dust and the faint hum of cicadas from the nearby pines. Erica Ramirez
stood at her parents’ graveside, her boots scuffing the dry earth, her
jade-green eyes tracing the fresh marble where Christopher Williams’s urn now
rested. It’d been a week since she’d found him here—sixty-seven and gone, knelt
before her mother’s headstone with a sunflower laid gently across it, his hands
clasped as if in prayer to two people who’d shaped his life. Now, his ashes sat
sealed in a simple urn atop a small, unmarked tablet, right beside a green
glass vase cradling a single sunflower, its yellow petals defiant against the
gray stone. She’d driven from San Angelo today, less than three hours in her
‘39 Hyundai thanks to the autopilot pushing past 100 MPH, to see it done, to
make sense of the man who’d shadowed her family’s story, but the sight stopped
her cold.
The groundskeeper, a wiry man in his fifties with a
sun-creased face, approached her, his steps slow and deliberate. He tipped his
faded DFD cap—probably a hand-me-down from Ana’s husband, Ben—and wiped his
brow. Erica pulled an envelope from her purse, fat with cash she’d scraped
together from her vet tech paycheck, and held it out. “For the urn,” she said,
voice steady despite the knot in her chest. “To cover the costs.”
He waved it off, his calloused hand dismissive. “That’s not
necessary, Miss Ramirez. Mr. Williams’s estate paid for his cremation and the
urn. It also replaced your parents’ headstone here at Pineview.”
Erica blinked, the envelope hovering awkwardly between them.
“Mr. Williams’s estate?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, nodding toward the graves. “He was
loaded. At report of his death, his oldest son came to town and locked up his
place on the southeastern edge, by that old trailer park. They paid Pineview a
generous donation—near ten million dollars—to maintain the Torres family plot
with a new headstone. He even asked that a fresh sunflower be placed at the
grave every day. The son arranged that—we send a college kid up into the hills
every few days. That kid had his education paid for. Then the Range Animal
Science got a hefty chunk to keep the horse pens maintained. One hell of a
deal, if you ask me.”
Her gaze snapped to the headstone, its polished surface
catching the light. She stepped closer, heart pounding as she read the
inscriptions. On one side: "In loving memory of my brother in music -
David Randall Torres, 1977-2022." On the other, above her mother’s urn:
"In loving memory of a wife, mother, and dear friend - Elizabeth Gonzalez
Torres, 1979-2022." Below Elizabeth’s name, Christopher’s urn sat silent,
no markings, just that sunflower glowing beside it. Erica’s throat tightened,
tears pricking her eyes as the weight of it hit her. “Sir Christopher,” she
whispered, the name slipping out like a prayer, her voice trembling with the
memory of an honorable man who’d spared her mother from disgrace—at the expense
of his own broken heart, who’d come here to honor Elizabeth and David one last
time.
Except, that wasn’t quite right. She wiped her eyes, staring
at the urn, questions clawing at her. Had her mother gone back to him, as
Christopher had hinted years ago? That night in 2036, when she’d stormed his
shack on the southeastern edge—right by that crumbling trailer park—demanding
answers, he’d said, “She came back once, Kee-kuh, beggin’ me again. I sent her
away—told her to stay with David.” But the diary—March 2012, nine months before
Ana’s birth—burned in her memory: “If there’s another child, it’ll be his.” Was
Ana only a half-sister? And if so, did that mean Erica had a
half-brother—Christopher’s son, this mystery heir who’d swept in with millions?
Were there other children? The questions pressed down on her, heavier now than
ever, a tangle of secrets she couldn’t unravel standing here at Pineview.
“Oh, Miss Ramirez, my apologies,” the groundskeeper said,
breaking her reverie. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small
envelope, weathered but sealed. “Mr. Williams’s executor wanted me to give this
to you.”
She took it, hands unsteady, and tore it open. Inside was a
card with a brass key taped to it, double-sided tape peeling at the edges. A
note in Christopher’s shaky scrawl read: "You’ve made it this far, Erica.
Do you want to go a little further? - Sir Christopher." On the back, an
address—his rundown shack off the highway, southeastern edge of town, by the
trailer park. She knew it well—nine years ago, she’d made the trip from San
Angelo, less than three hours at speed, stood there at 26 and furious, demanding
the truth about her mother. He’d given her scraps, sent her away with more
questions than answers. Nine years she’d had to think on it, and now this—an
invitation, a taunt, a dare from beyond the grave.
Erica stared at the key, her breath shallow, Pineview fading
around her. Christopher loaded? A son? Ten million dollars for her family’s
plot, sunflowers every day, horse pens preserved—all from a man she’d once seen
as a broken shadow, yet who’d died praying to her parents with a sunflower in
hand? Her mind raced, replaying his words from 2040, that raspy call: “That
truth is for your sister, not you. Decide for yourself if Ana should know.”
She’d driven to Dallas last week, diary in hand—a four-hour trip cut to under
three at 100-plus MPH—ready to confront Ana and Ben, but she’d stalled—left it
unsaid, the weight too much with Mateo and Lisa waiting back home with Javier
in San Angelo. Now this key, this note, pulling her across town to the
southeastern edge. Her curiosity was too great, the mystery too deep to pass
up.
She looked up at the headstone, the sunflower, the urn—Sir
Christopher’s final mark on her family. Tears spilled over, hot and silent, as
she clutched the envelope. An honorable man, yes, but one who’d kept secrets
she couldn’t ignore—a man who’d knelt here to pray to Elizabeth and David, not
to drown in drink. Had he fathered Ana? Was this son her brother? Were there
others? She didn’t know, but the key in her hand promised answers—or more
questions. Either way, she couldn’t turn back now.
“Thank you,” she muttered to the groundskeeper, voice thick,
and turned toward her Hyundai. The drive across town loomed ahead, a short haul
to the southeastern edge by the trailer park, but it felt like miles of dust
and doubt even with the autopilot’s precision. She’d go. She had to. For her
mother, for Ana, for Mateo and Lisa—and maybe, just maybe, for herself.
Chapter Nine: The Living Room of Ghosts
Summer, 2045
Erica Ramirez pulled her ‘39 Hyundai to a stop on the
southeastern edge of the college town, four hours southwest of San Angelo by
old maps, though the autopilot had shaved it to under three at 100-plus MPH.
The shack loomed ahead—not the rickety dive she’d stormed nine years ago, but a
renovated gem gleaming in the late afternoon sun. The old rusted Chevy truck
shone under a new metal carport, restored to assembly-line perfection, its
chrome catching the light. In front of the house, a small concrete birdbath
bubbled with chirping sparrows splashing in the water. She climbed out, the
brass key from Pineview heavy in her hand, and approached the door. It opened
effortlessly, the lock clicking smooth as if it’d been waiting for her.
Inside, the air hit her—Christopher’s cologne, woody and
worn, mingling with the musty scent of books. Gone was the clutter of junk; the
house was neat, clean, every surface polished. The old furniture had been
swapped for newer versions—sleek wood, soft leather—yet it felt like stepping
into a memory. She passed the refrigerator, and a screen flickered to life on
the wall, Christopher’s face filling it, his cloudy blue eyes twinkling with
something she hadn’t seen before. “I knew you couldn’t resist a good story,
Cica,” he said, voice warm, free of the hesitation and hostility she’d known.
“You got too much of your mother and father in ya, kid. The book you’re lookin’
for is a maroon leatherbound hardback…”
Erica froze, glancing at the timestamp—July 17, 2045, the
day she’d found him at Pineview, knelt with a sunflower, praying to her parents
before he’d slipped away at sixty-seven. His final message, recorded hours
before those last moments? “Stop dawdlin’ and sit down, kid!” he snapped,
playful mock agitation in his tone, the screen glitching faintly as if
responding to her pause. Interactive—alive, somehow.
She sank into the leather recliner, its scent wrapping
around her, and smiled despite herself. “Sir Christopher, do you have another
story to tell me?”
“Dad nabbit, girl, I ain’t givin’ you all the answers,” he
shot back, grin widening. “Read the book—it’ll explain everything you need to
know. And share this with your sister.”
“Old man,” she said, leaning forward, “did you really love
my mother?”
He paused, eyes softening, a flicker of pain beneath the
mirth. “Always askin’ questions you may not wanna know the answers to, Cica.
That’s pure David. Your mother was the finest woman I ever met—kindest, most
beautiful in my world. Of course I had no choice but to love her. And I did,
even when she manipulated me to get what she wanted. I could never say no or
stay mad at her for long, child. I loved her far too much for that. But don’t
blame her for it. Your father and your grandfather kept us apart, saw to it we
stayed that way. And well, if they hadn’t, you wouldn’t be here. Your mother
was the finest woman, but people are flawed, Cica, as you no doubt know by now.
Love’s a complex feelin’—utter joy and brutal misery. Lovin’ her was the
easiest decision of my life. Keepin’ her—that took strength neither of us could
maintain. Read the book, it’ll explain everything.” He leaned closer, voice
dropping. “And Cica, this home’s your legacy—yours and your sister’s. My son’s
got his family, so please, let them be. Lastly, this place is keyed to you
now—biometrics. Just say ‘Door open,’ and it’ll let you in. That’s all I got
for now, kiddo. Take good care of your family and your sister. I know your
parents’d be proud of you—both of ‘em.”
The screen blinked off, “End Interactive Message” flashing
across it as it powered down. Erica exhaled, the room settling into silence,
and rose to the bookcase. Rows of pristine volumes stared back—college
textbooks, music theory, lesson plans, computer manuals—everything Christopher
had learned for his music, education, and career, ordered like a shrine. Her
finger brushed a maroon leather spine: For Elizabeth and Her Daughters. She
pulled it free, sinking back into the recliner, the cologne thick in the air.
It reminded her of hugging her mother after a ride on Felix—Elizabeth’s light
blue western shirt faintly scented with it, mixed with sweat.
She read for an hour, pages turning under her trembling
fingers, until the words blurred with tears. “Oh my God,” she choked, slamming
the book shut, fighting sobs. She grabbed it and bolted for the door, snatching
her mother’s diary off the kitchen table as she went. The door slammed shut
behind her, locking tight. “Oh shit!” she yelped, spinning back to a small
touchpad. “Door open!”
A buzz, then Christopher’s voice cackled through the
speaker. “Heheheh, that won’t work, Cica! I was just pullin’ your chain. You’re
definitely your father’s daughter. Heheheh! Use your key, girl!” Erica burst
out laughing between sobs, the old man’s final jab landing sharp—payback for
her storming in nine years ago, dragging his misery into the light. She slid
the key in, reopened the door, and stepped back inside, still chuckling.
The fridge caught her eye. She swung it open, and
Christopher’s face buzzed back onto the screen. “Girl, you got somethin’
important to do—don’t go raidin’ a poor dead man’s fridge!” She grinned—rows of
icy Shiner Bock stared back. She grabbed one, popped the cap, and tossed it
into the wastebasket with a clink. “Oh, fine, steal an old man’s beer,” he
grumbled. “Yeah, that’s definitely David’s daughter. The cheap bastard never
chipped in for drinks…” The screen went black.
Erica took a swig, the cold bite flooding her with
memories—meeting Javier years back, nights drinking with Ana, who’d always
loved Shiner Bock. Now she knew why. David stuck to a stingy six-pack of
Corona, but this? This was Christopher’s mark—her great-uncle Ruben’s favorite
too. She finished it, tossed the bottle in the basket, and reached for the
trash bag to haul it out when Christopher flickered back on. “Leave it, Cica.
The cleanin’ lady’ll restock the beer and take out the trash. She’s paid to keep
this place up for the next thirty years. Don’t worry ‘bout upkeep—you worry
‘bout takin’ care of the family. You got at least a three-hour drive home, so
get goin’.”
He was right. She nodded, grabbed the book and diary, and
headed out. The door locked behind her with a solid click. She ran to her
Hyundai, the restored Chevy gleaming beside it, and peeled out, the autopilot
humming as it aimed northeast. Three hours to San Angelo—Mateo, Lisa, Javier,
and Ana waiting beyond. Whatever she’d read in that book, it’d shaken her to
the core, and she couldn’t carry it alone anymore.
Chapter Ten: Ruben’s Fear and Determination
Summer, 1999
Two weeks had crawled by since Christopher Williams last sat
at Ruben Gonzalez’s bar, nursing a Shiner Bock and clinging to a thread of hope
spun from Ruben’s promise to sway his brother Mateo. The late summer heat
pressed down on the West Texas scrub, relentless and thick, as Christopher’s
Chevy growled to a stop outside the squat adobe dive three hours south of the
college town he’d left behind. The neon sign flickered a weak welcome through
the dusk, tumbleweeds snagging in the lot’s edges, the faint twang of Tejano
music leaking out like a ghost of the night before. He killed the engine, the
silence swallowing the rumble, and stepped out, boots crunching gravel,
trombone case rattling in the truck bed—a quiet reminder of the life he’d
gambled on Elizabeth Gonzalez and lost.
It was late—pushing midnight—and the bar looked emptier than
usual, no pickups cluttering the lot, no hum of voices spilling out.
Christopher, twenty-one and wired with restless grit, pushed through the door,
expecting Ruben’s wiry frame behind the bar, that salt-and-pepper mustache
twitching over a grin. But the bar was a hollow shell—stools vacant, tables
bare, the jukebox silent save for a faint crackle. No Ruben. Something was off.
He scanned the room, the air thick with stale beer and a tension he couldn’t
place, until he caught muffled voices drifting from behind the bar, through the
open door to the back room.
Christopher edged closer, boots soft on the scarred wood,
and peered through the gap. Ruben stood there, thirty-two and scared out of his
mind, sweat beading on his brow, his good eye wide and darting as he talked to
someone Christopher couldn’t see. His hands trembled, voice high and
frantic—nothing like the steady, warm rumble Christopher knew. Something was
wrong—damn wrong.
He stepped out from the shadows, and the scene snapped into
focus. A tall Mexican man loomed in the cramped back room, dressed in a dark
western suit—black Stetson tipped low, silver bolo tie glinting under the dim
bulb. In his hands, a submachine gun, sleek and cold, trained steady on Ruben’s
chest. Definitely something wrong. Christopher’s pulse kicked up, but he
squared his shoulders, stepped fully into the doorway—no fear in his cloudy
blue eyes, just a hard, unyielding calm.
“Are you Mr. Williams?” the man asked, voice smooth with a
border edge, keeping the gun on Ruben.
“Yes, sir,” Christopher replied, steady as stone. “And who
might I ask are you?”
“My name is Robert. I have a message from Mateo—stay away
from his daughter, gringo. Or I will come find you, and you won’t like what
happens next, vato.” The threat rolled out casual, like he’d said it a hundred
times before.
“Robert, or is it Roberto?” Christopher asked, not a lick of
fear in his gaze, tilting his head slight, testing the waters.
“Yes, gringo,” the man grinned, playful but cold. “I just
say Robert ‘cause gringos usually butcher Spanish, but your pronunciation is
perfect. You’ve spent time in Mexico, my friend?”
“Christopher,” Ruben cut in, voice cracking, frantic. “Just
leave and don’t come back—my brother’s lost his mind, callin’ the cartel to
keep you away. Whatever twisted deal he’s made, he’s gonna live to regret—”
“Quiet, Ruben,” Christopher said suddenly, voice cold as a
blade, eyes never leaving Roberto.
“Roberto, do you know Raul?” Christopher asked, stepping
closer, hands loose at his sides.
“Who, gringo?” Roberto shifted the submachine gun to point
at Christopher, playful still, but his grip tightened.
“I said Raul,” Christopher repeated, perfect Spanish rolling
off his tongue—crisp, deliberate.
Roberto’s grin faltered, a flicker of unease in his dark
eyes. “I’m afraid there are too many Raúl's in Mexico, gringo. Can’t keep track
of ‘em all.” His tone stayed cold, but the name shook him—Christopher saw it,
the way his jaw twitched.
“Yes, Raul Esquino,” Christopher pressed, voice low, steady.
Roberto turned white, nearly dropping the gun, his bravado
crumbling. “You know Manche?” Fear crept into his voice, raw and real.
“I taught him how to twirl his straight razor,” Christopher
said, calm as if he were reciting a grocery list.
“Chris, what you talkin’ ‘bout, man?” Ruben gasped, still
pressed against the wall, eyes darting between them.
“No gringo would know Manche—he’s an animal…” Roberto’s
voice trembled, gun dipping slightly.
“Yes, Raul’s an animal,” Christopher nodded. “We used to hit
the whorehouses in Juárez. Saved him from the federales a few times—he swore
we’d be brothers for life. He and I are like brothers. Would you like to meet
that part of my family?”
“No, gringo,” Roberto said quick, sweat beading on his brow.
“Who sent you here, Roberto?”
“Mateo Gonzalez did some legal wrangling for my boss,
Josefa…”
“Josefa Juárez?” Christopher cut in, eyebrow lifting.
Roberto nodded, terrified now, finger easing off the
trigger.
“I know your boss," Chris said, cold as ice. "He’s a good, solid family man. He
agreed to this?”
“Well,” Roberto stammered, gun lowering further, “not
exactly—”
“Chris, what the fuck?” Ruben blurted, voice high with
panic.
“Quiet, Ruben,” Christopher snapped, eyes locked on Roberto.
“Roberto was just about to leave after apologizin’ for the misunderstandin’.”
“I’m sorry, Ruben,” Roberto said fast, stepping back.
“There’s been a misunderstandin’. I was lookin’ for Ruben Duarte—you’re a
Gonzalez. Heh, small mix-up…”
“Roberto,” Christopher said, voice dropping low, firm, “I
want you to tell Mateo Gonzalez you did the job he asked and that I left town.
Then tell Josefa you met Chris the Red in Presidio and that he sends his
regards.”
“You’re Chris the Red?” Roberto’s eyes widened, gun slipping
lower.
“Yes,” Christopher said, flat and final.
“That would mean…” Roberto’s voice faltered, mind racing.
“Roberto, FOCUS,” Christopher barked, stepping closer. “You
got a contract to close out and regards to Josefa from Chris the Red. And
remember—time ain’t your friend. Manche will be expectin’ a call from me any
day now.”
“Yes, sir, I’m sorry, man…” Roberto stowed the submachine
gun under his jacket, moving with purpose to get the hell out. “I—”
“You need to go now,” Christopher said, cold and unyielding.
Roberto bolted, the door banging shut behind him.
Christopher and Ruben heard squealing tires on pavement as he sped off into the
night, taillights swallowed by the dark.
“Chris the Red?” Ruben wheezed, sliding down the wall, hands
shaking. “He murdered a rival cartel with a fire axe—they never found out where
he went.”
“Yeah, well, that was definitely Raul,” Christopher said,
leaning against the doorframe, exhaling slow. “Mr. Juárez hired our band for a
wedding reception—Raul was our bodyguard while we were in Mexico. Really is
like a brother to me. Amazed him how I twirled a butterfly knife—asked me to
try a straight razor as a joke. I spun it ‘round like a dull butter knife. Said
he’d never seen a gringo act that crazy before. Showed him how to do it without
cuttin’ himself. Then he took us all to Juárez for whores, got us drunk and
laid. He was a good man ‘fore he started drinkin’. Then he just went off the
deep end…”
“Brother, I had no idea…” Ruben stared at him, still
catching his breath, the fear draining slow from his face.
Christopher shrugged, a faint smirk tugging his lips. “Ain’t
no one Mateo’s gonna scare me off from—not with some hired gun. But if he’s
callin’ cartel favors, he’s playin’ a game he don’t understand.” He stepped
over, clapped Ruben’s shoulder firm. “You okay, man?”
Ruben nodded, shaky but steadying, wiping sweat from his
brow. “Yeah—yeah, I’ll live. Just… Mateo’s gone too far. Cartel? For Lizzie?
He’s gonna get us all killed.”
“Mateo’s scared,” Christopher said, voice low, eyes distant
now, fixed on the night beyond the open door. “Scared I’ll take her, scared
she’ll run. But I ain’t backin’ down—not yet. You still in this with me?”
“If he’s goin’ to that trouble and sendin’ them after you,
then there’s no tellin’ what else he’ll do,” Ruben admitted, his voice still
shaky but firming up as he leaned against the bar, wiping a rag over the
counter like it’d steady him. His good eye flicked to Christopher, searching
for a read on the kid who’d just stared down a submachine gun without blinking.
Christopher exhaled slow, dragging a hand through his shaggy
brown hair, the weight of it settling in. “I think I should go back home,
Ruben. Somethin’ ain’t right ‘bout this.”
Ruben paused, rag still in hand, and cocked his head.
“What—you gonna sneak her outta the house?”
“No,” Christopher said, shaking his head, voice flat but
heavy. “I think I should focus on my school for now ‘fore someone else gets
hurt.”
“You sure, Chris?” Ruben asked, brows knitting, concern
creasing his bruised face.
“Yes,” Christopher said, firm, stepping back toward the
bar’s empty stools. “If Mateo makes the wrong phone call at this, they could
come after him and his family. I’m gonna talk to Raul, see if we can’t defuse
this ‘fore it gets any worse.”
Ruben snorted, a dry chuckle breaking through the tension.
“I coulda taken Roberto—he just had the drop on me with that gun.”
“No, Ruben,” Christopher cut in, cold and sharp, turning to
face him fully. “Roberto’s good. I just happened to know someone even a good
killer’s afraid of.” He grabbed a Shiner from behind the bar, popped the cap
with a flick of his thumb, and took a long pull, the cold bite grounding him.
“Let me go home and think this through.”
Ruben watched him, the bottle glinting faintly in the dim
light, and nodded slow, like he was piecing it together. “You’re playin’ with
fire, kid—Raul, Mateo, cartel—but I get it. Ain’t worth bleedin’ for if it’s
gonna drag Lizzie down too.” He tossed the rag onto the counter, crossed his
arms. “You really think Raul can pull strings on this?”
“Raul’s a brother,” Christopher said, setting the bottle
down with a soft clink. “Crazy as hell, but loyal. Saved his ass enough
times—he owes me. If I can get him to lean on Josefa, might spook Mateo into
backin’ off without more guns showin’ up.” He smirked, faint and tired. “Or at
least buy us some damn time.”
Ruben leaned forward, elbows on the bar, voice dropping low.
“Mateo’s my brother, Chris—bastard or not. I don’t want him dead, just… reined
in. You sure you’re good walkin’ away from her for now?”
“Ain’t walkin’ away,” Christopher corrected, eyes narrowing.
“Just steppin’ back. School’s my excuse—keeps me outta the crosshairs ‘til I
figure the next play. Elizabeth’s worth it, but I ain’t gettin’ her caught in a
cartel mess ‘cause her old man’s lost his damn mind.”
“Fair enough,” Ruben said, straightening up, a flicker of
relief in his gaze. “Go home, kid. Call your psycho razor-twirlin’ brother.
I’ll keep an ear out—Mateo tries anythin’ else, I’ll holler.”
Christopher nodded, finishing the Shiner in one last gulp,
and tossed the bottle into a crate behind the bar. “Thanks, Ruben. Keep your
head down—Roberto might not be the last one Mateo sends.”
“Head down, fists up,” Ruben grinned, tapping his bruised
jaw. “Get outta here ‘fore I change my mind and drag you back into this.”
Christopher clapped his shoulder one last time, turned, and
pushed through the door into the night. The Chevy’s engine roared to life,
headlights cutting through the dust as he peeled out, northbound for the
college town three hours away. The weight of Roberto’s gun, Mateo’s
desperation, and Elizabeth’s jade-green eyes rode shotgun with him, heavy as
the trombone case rattling in the bed. He’d talk to Raul—diffuse this bomb
before it blew up everything he loved. But for now, school was the shield, and
he’d damn well use it.
Chapter Eleven: On the Rocks
Late Summer to Fall, 1999
Christopher Williams went straight home after peeling out of
Ruben’s bar, the Chevy’s engine growling north through the dark for three hours
until he hit the college town, dust and despair clinging to him like a second
skin. He stumbled into his dorm room, trombone case thudding against the wall,
and crawled inside a tequila bottle for the night. The entire world seemed to
be against him and Elizabeth—Mateo’s shotgun, Roberto’s submachine gun, now the
shadow of the cartel looming over it all. It’d been months since he’d seen her,
since that final kiss in the dorm lobby, her jade-green eyes burning into his
soul as she drove off with Maria and that crumpled note. His heart ached, a
raw, gnawing thing he couldn’t outrun, and he found just the right amount of
drink would numb the pain—and pretty much everything else.
He was drunk day and night, didn’t eat, barely went to
class. Tequila bottles piled up, empty husks scattered across the floor like
spent shells, the room sour with sweat and stale liquor. By the end of the
first month—late September creeping into October—a counselor from the
university knocked on his door, sent to check if anyone still lived there. The
RA, Brian, had tipped them off—kid hadn’t been seen sober since summer. They
found him passed out on the floor, shirtless, a half-empty bottle of Cuervo clutched
in his hand, drool pooling on the cracked linoleum. His trombone sat untouched
in its case, a silent witness to the wreck he’d become.
They hauled him up, got him sober enough to slur his name,
and dragged him to the health center. The counselor—a wiry guy with glasses and
a clipboard—sat him down, voice stern but tired. “You’re throwin’ it all away,
Williams. Music scholarship, decent grades—what the hell happened?”
Christopher just stared at the wall, eyes bloodshot, the
ache too deep to explain. “Lost her,” he mumbled, voice rough as gravel. “Ain’t
nothin’ left.”
Meanwhile, Raul Esquino had made his move, but it wasn’t the
fix Christopher hoped for. Down south, at Mateo Gonzalez’s sprawling
house—whitewash gleaming under the sun, Virgen de Guadalupe statue chipped but
proud—Raul rolled up in a blacked-out Lincoln, dust swirling around his boots
as he stepped out. Thirty-something, lean and lethal, his straight razor tucked
in his belt, a grin splitting his scarred face. It was a courtesy visit, not a
negotiation. Mateo, fifty-three and stiff in his lawyer’s suit, met him at the
door, Maria hovering nervous in the background. David Torres, twenty-two and
twitchy, sat at the kitchen table, law books spread out, pretending to study
under Mateo’s mentorship.
Raul didn’t sit. He loomed, boots clicking on the tile, and
laid it out cold. “Chris is out of bounds, Mateo. Everyone in the cartel knows
‘bout him well enough to steer clear. Whatever business you got, you’d better
leave us outta it.” His voice was low, a growl wrapped in silk, eyes glinting
like obsidian. Then he leaned in, personal now, finger jabbing the air.
“Personally, I’m tellin’ you—Chris has protection. Any further action against
him, and there’ll be heavy consequences for you and your family. You don’t want
Manche knockin’ on your door, compadre.”
Mateo’s jaw tightened, hands curling into fists at his
sides, but he nodded stiff, Scotch breath sharp in the air. “Understood,” he
bit out, voice clipped. He’d gambled on Josefa Juárez’s muscle through Roberto,
but Raul’s name carried a weight that made his legal wrangling look like
child’s play.
Raul turned, eyes landing on David, and his grin widened,
dark and knowing. He walked right up to him, towering over the table, and bent
close. “I know you,” he said, voice dripping with menace. “I remember you, and
I know you remember me—you should be ashamed of yourself, Mr. Torres…”
David turned white, chair scraping as he shrank back, the
terror of meeting Raul in Mexico years back flooding him like a cold wave. He’d
stayed in the villa that night, safe behind stucco walls, while Chris and a few
others from the band went to Juárez with Raul. He’d watched from a
distance—Chris, barely nineteen then, laughing as he taught this murderer how
to twirl a straight razor, working Raul until it spun smooth in his hands, as
easy as breathing. David had seen the glint in Raul’s eyes, the animal unleashed,
and the way Chris matched it—fearless, wild, twirling his own blade like it was
nothing. Deep down, David knew what they’d done was wrong—carousing with
killers, flirting with a world that chewed up men like him—but his jealousy and
love for Elizabeth blinded him. He’d tagged along for the gig, chasing Mateo’s
approval, dreaming of law school and her, even if she barely knew him—just some
hometown kid in her orbit.
But this went way further than he’d imagined. Chris teaching
Raul tricks was one thing—now the cartel itself was warning them to stay in
line? The revelation that they wouldn’t allow any further shenanigans secretly
angered him, a hot coal burning in his gut, but it also made him afraid. His
hands shook as he gripped the table, Raul’s shadow lingering even after the man
turned and strode out, Lincoln peeling off in a cloud of dust. Mateo cursed
under his breath, stalking to his study, leaving David alone with his books and
a creeping dread.
What other skill did Chris have that he lacked? David had
the sax, the charm, the law degree in his sights—but Chris had this. A gringo
who walked with cartel ghosts, who could stare down a gun and come out the
other side. David loved Elizabeth, madly, blindly, even though she didn’t see
him—not yet. He’d pushed Mateo to keep Chris away, fed that jealousy into every
move, but now? Now he wondered if he’d lit a fuse he couldn’t snuff out.
Back at the dorm, Christopher woke in the health center,
head pounding, the counselor’s words a dull buzz. They gave him a choice—shape
up or ship out. He picked the bottle off the floor when he got back, took
another swig, and let the numbness take him again. Elizabeth was a ghost in his
chest, and the world—Mateo, David, Raul, all of it—could burn for all he cared.
But somewhere, under the haze, a spark flickered. He’d fight, eventually. Just
not today.
Chapter Twelve: Another Try
Late March, 2012
It was the night after Christopher sent Elizabeth home, her
tear-streaked plea still clawing at his mind as he’d slammed the door on her,
heart hammering with a decade of buried pain. She’d driven off into the West
Texas night, leaving him alone in his beat-up house, the silence thicker than
the dust on his shelves. Elizabeth Torres, thirty-three now, a doctor with a
career and a husband she couldn’t fully claim, tossed in her bed until dawn,
David’s empty side a cold void from his East Coast assignment. She’d try again
early the next morning—maybe he’d be cooled off enough to listen this time. All
of this on a maybe? she told herself, but “until the day I die” echoed in her
mind as if to answer her, a vow from ‘99 that dragged her back like a lifeline.
She’d left the office early that Friday, March 30, to run
some errands—dry cleaning, groceries, a quick ride at Felix’s pens to steady
her nerves. She didn’t have to be back until 3 p.m., her schedule clear, and
she’d mark this as an “off-campus medical consult” in her planner, a thin
excuse to see him again. Three hours north from San Angelo, her sedan purred
into the college town, dust swirling as she pulled up to his weathered
shack—peeling paint, sagging roof, solar panels half-dead. His Chevy truck sat
under the beat-up carport, rust flaking off its edges. He must be home. She
stepped out, boots crunching gravel, her light blue blouse fluttering in the
breeze, and climbed the creaky porch steps. “I guess try number three,” she
sighed, knocking on the door, heart thudding against her ribs.
Christopher opened it, thirty-four and bleary-eyed, flannel
shirt wrinkled, gray streaking his shaggy hair. He’d cracked a Shiner Bock
after a late shift, the bottle still sweating in his hand, and her face—those
jade-green eyes—hit him like a ghost from his past. He shut the door fast in
her face. “GO AWAY,” he yelled from behind it, voice rough with beer and
bitterness.
“Christopher, please hear me out…” she called, stepping
back, her tone soft but desperate. She didn’t see the old trombone case lying
behind her, its cracked leather blending with the porch’s decay.
He flung the door open again, scowling, bottle dangling in
his grip. “I don’t want to see you, Elizabeth.” Calling her by her formal
name—not Liz, not darlin’—was a good sign, she thought, a flicker of the old
tenderness. Then her heel snagged the case, and she tumbled backward off the
porch, falling six feet onto the gravel driveway. “OOOF,” she gasped, landing
flat on her back, the wind knocked clean out of her.
“Elizabeth!” Christopher yelled, storming out after her,
shock and fear flashing in his cloudy blue eyes as he dropped the bottle, glass
shattering on the steps. He leapt off the porch, boots hitting the ground
beside her, gravel crunching as he scooped her up off the dirt, her back
covered in rocks and dust. She gasped for breath, clutching at nothing, and he
carried her inside, arms trembling as he laid her on the sagging couch. “Oh
God!” she wheezed, still fighting to catch the wind that’d been slammed out of
her.
“Oh God, dear, are you okay?” he asked, kneeling beside her,
concern carving deep lines into his face, hands hovering like he feared she’d
break.
“I think so, I…” she managed, sitting up slow, their eyes
locking. She saw the love and pain in his gaze—twelve years of longing and
loss—mirrored by the ache in her own. It crashed over them, and Christopher
grabbed her, pulling her to him, kissing her hard. Twelve years of misery, of
being apart, erupted—every night he’d drowned her in booze, every day she’d
buried him under duty—unleashed in that kiss, fierce and raw.
He broke away, standing abrupt, breath ragged. “I’m sorry,
Elizabeth, I don’t know what…”
Elizabeth stood, wrapping her arms around him, kissing him
back, her hands gripping his shoulders like he might fade. He wrapped his arms
around her, lifting her off the floor, kissing her as if there were no end in
sight—lips hungry, hearts bleeding. A single moment to heal their broken
hearts, stitching wounds that’d festered since ‘99. He set her back on her
feet, gentle now, and held her tight, not wanting to let go.
“I thought I’d died,” he whispered, voice thick with beer
and ghosts, staring into her eyes like she wasn’t real. “Last night, when you
showed up—thought you were a dream come to haunt me.”
“I looked everywhere,” she said, her voice trembling,
fingers tracing his jaw. “All over town for you—I need…” She faltered, the
weight of it choking her.
He stopped her with another kiss, soft and urgent, picking
her up in his arms and laying her back on the couch. Kissing her, he held her
close, his weight a shield against the years, not wanting to ever let go. They
dozed off in each other’s arms, the late morning sun slanting through cracked
blinds, warming the dust motes around them. Her head rested on his chest, his
hand tangled in her black hair, and for the first time in a dozen years, the
pain dulled—just enough.
Chapter Thirteen: Erica’s Home
Summer, 2045
Erica Ramirez pulled her ‘39 Hyundai into the driveway of
her San Angelo home, the autopilot humming to a stop after the three-hour
sprint from Christopher’s renovated shack. The late July sun hung low, painting
the stucco house gold, Mateo’s bike slumped against the garage, Lisa’s chalk
drawings fading on the walk. She’d read three-quarters of the way through For
Elizabeth and Her Daughters on the drive—Christopher’s maroon leatherbound
confession clutched tight in her lap, pages dog-eared and tear-stained. It was
shocking—betrayal by her own family members, a tangled web spun to keep her
mother and her lover apart. Sir Christopher fought for her, sacrificed for her,
and her father, David, came off as a jealous, hate-filled creep. Her own
grandfather, Mateo, who she’d named her son after, was a hateful, controlling
monster who’d hired a criminal to put a stop to Sir Christopher. Had it worked?
she wondered, stepping out, the brass key from Pineview heavy in her pocket.
The book laid it bare—Mateo’s shotgun threats, the cartel
muscle, David’s simmering envy—all to bury the love Elizabeth and Christopher
had kindled in ‘99. She hauled the book and her mother’s diary inside, the
screen door banging shut behind her. Javier was at work, Mateo, seven, and
Lisa, five, still at summer camp, leaving the house quiet save for the hum of
the fridge. She dropped onto the couch, kicking off her boots, the weight of it
all sinking in. Her mother—married for convenience, or was it love? Erica,
thirty-five now, sifted through memories, her mind snagging on one clear
thread: Elizabeth was happiest right before Ana was born, late 2012. Those
months glowed in her recall—Mom laughing, radiant, riding Felix with a
lightness Erica hadn’t seen since.
She still remembered Christopher’s cologne—woody, worn,
unmistakable—and smelling it on her mother’s clothes, mixed with her sweat,
back when Erica was a kid. She’d been two, maybe three, Ana not yet born or a
newborn, when Elizabeth would come home from “errands,” her light blue western
shirt carrying that scent. Had they really been lovers? The book hinted at
it—March 2012, a desperate reunion, kisses on that beat-up couch—and Ana
arrived nine months later. Was Ana a princess to Sir Christopher’s legacy? Erica
flipped open the diary, her mother’s tight script blurring as she traced the
dates. The math fit, but the truth stayed shadowed, a secret Elizabeth took to
her grave in ‘22.
And what would happen to Ana now? Erica leaned back, staring
at the ceiling, the book heavy on her chest. Would she be crushed by this news?
Ana, thirty-two, tough as nails in Dallas with Ben, her firefighter
husband—she’d weathered their parents’ death, built a life. No, she was still
Elizabeth’s daughter. The Torres women were tough—Erica knew it in her bones,
felt it in her own scars. Ana would be fine, perhaps shaken and hurt, but
otherwise no worse for wear. The betrayal—Mateo’s control, David’s spite—might
sting, but it wouldn’t break her.
Erica stood, pacing to the kitchen, the scent of real coffee
lingering from that morning—Javier always teased her for it. She poured a mug,
hands steady despite the storm inside, and leaned against the counter.
Christopher’s words from the screen replayed—“Your mother was the finest woman…
love’s a complex feelin’”—and she saw it now. Elizabeth loved David, maybe, in
her way, but Christopher was her heart’s anchor, a pull she couldn’t shake.
Naming her son Mateo felt bitter now, a tribute to a man who’d caged her
mother’s joy. Had it worked? Mateo’s plan? Not really—Christopher fought, lost,
and still left this legacy, an urn between her parents at Pineview, a book
spilling their truth.
She sipped the coffee, hot and sharp, and set the mug down.
Ana deserved to know—needed to read this, to smell that cologne in her own
memory and decide what it meant. Erica grabbed her comm, thumb hovering over
Ana’s name. Shaken, hurt, but fine—she’d call tomorrow, drive to Dallas with
Javier, hand over the book and diary. Let Ana wrestle with it, like she had.
The Torres women didn’t crumble; they carried on, tougher for it. Erica glanced
at Mateo’s bike through the window, Lisa’s chalk smudged but bright, and nodded
to herself. Time to tell the story right—for Elizabeth, for Ana, for them all.
Chapter Fourteen: Love and Heartache
Late March, 2012
Elizabeth Gonzalez Torres stirred awake on the sagging
couch, the late morning sun slanting through cracked blinds, warming her cheek.
Christopher’s arms still encircled her, his flannel-clad chest rising and
falling beneath her head, steady and quiet. She sighed—a soft, happy sound that
fluttered out unbidden, born from the ache of being in love and the safety of
his hold. For the first time in years, the hollow inside her felt full,
stitched together by the press of his body against hers, the woody scent of his
cologne threading through the dusty air. She tilted her head and brushed a kiss
against the tip of his nose, a tender impulse, then nestled back onto his
chest, listening to the faint rhythm of his breath as he slept.
A glance at her watch jolted her—nearly noon. Three hours
until she was due back at the office, a slow, aggravating drive south over a
highway torn up by endless construction. The road was a mess—some stretches
newly paved and smooth, others rough with potholes and gravel, speed limits
jerking between 45 and 30 mph depending on the work crews’ whims. She’d finish
at four, her Friday light, but the thought of leaving this moment twisted
something sharp in her gut. She traced the lines of his face with her eyes—gray
streaking his shaggy brown hair, new creases etched around his mouth—and felt
the pull to stay, to steal more time. Her mind churned, already spinning a
plan. She’d call Mama—Maria Gonzalez—on the drive back home, weave some
half-truth about drinks with the nurses after work. Nothing solid, just enough
to blur the edges, to buy a few extra hours without questions. Maria wouldn’t
press too hard; she never did when Erica was safe in her care, and Elizabeth’s
“hospital emergencies” were excuse enough these days.
She shifted slightly, careful not to wake him, her light
blue blouse catching on the couch’s worn fabric. The memory of their kiss hours
ago—fierce, desperate, twelve years of longing unleashed—still burned on her
lips. He’d scooped her up after that fall off the porch, his panic melting into
something deeper, and they’d crashed together like a storm breaking. Now, in
the quiet, she felt the weight of it settle—love and heartache tangled tight, a
knot she couldn’t unravel. David’s cold hands from two nights ago lingered like
a bruise, but here, with Christopher, she could breathe again.
Her fingers brushed his jaw, rough with stubble, and she
wondered how long she could stretch this before the world clawed her back—David
on the East Coast, Erica with Mama, the life she’d built on duty instead of
desire. Three hours wasn’t enough, not with that damn road slowing her down,
but it was something. She’d take it.
Christopher stirred beneath her, a low hum rumbling in his
throat as his eyes fluttered open. Those cloudy blue eyes found hers, bleary at
first, then sharpening with a mix of surprise and warmth. “Elizabeth,” he
murmured, voice thick with sleep and the faint rasp of last night’s beer. His
hand tightened on her waist, like he needed to be sure she was real.
“Morning,” she whispered, a small smile tugging her lips as
she propped herself up on one elbow, gazing down at him. “Or almost afternoon.”
He blinked, glancing at the light seeping through the
blinds, then back to her. “You’re still here.” It wasn’t a question—just a
quiet marvel, laced with something fragile she couldn’t quite name.
“Couldn’t leave yet,” she said, her fingers tracing lazy
circles on his chest through the flannel. “Not after…” She trailed off, the
kiss, the fall, the years between them too big to fit into words.
He exhaled sharp, sitting up slow, his arm still cradling
her against him. “Thought I’d dreamed you up again,” he said, dragging a hand
through his hair, the gray strands catching the light. “Happens
sometimes—wakin’ up, thinkin’ you’re here, then nothin’ but this damn couch.”
Her chest tightened, guilt and longing twisting together.
“I’m here now,” she said, voice soft but firm, leaning in to kiss him
again—gentler this time, a brush of lips that lingered. He met her halfway, his
hand sliding to the back of her neck, holding her there like he could anchor
them both.
They stayed like that a moment, foreheads pressed together,
breathing the same air, until he pulled back just enough to look at her. “You
gotta go soon, don’t you?” His tone was resigned, but his eyes searched hers,
hungry for something she wasn’t sure she could give.
“Soon,” she admitted, glancing at her watch again—12:05 now.
“Work’s in three hours, and that road’s a bastard—construction’s got it all
torn up, slow as hell.” She sighed, resting her head on his shoulder. “But I’ll
call Mama later, say I’m stuck late. Drinks with the nurses, maybe. Gives me
‘til tonight.”
He chuckled, low and dry. “You’re still a lousy liar, Liz.”
The nickname slipped out, soft and rare, hitting her like a memory of
‘99—Paco’s saddle, sunflowers, his shy grin. “Your mama’ll see right through
it.”
“Let her,” she said, a spark of defiance in her voice. “I
need this—us. Just a little longer.” She nestled closer, her hand finding his,
fingers lacing tight. “Tell me you don’t want me to stay.”
He went still, his thumb brushing over her knuckles, then
squeezed her hand hard. “I have only one request if you’re gonna stay, and I
must insist on it,” he said, voice dropping low, rough with a need he couldn’t
hide. “Tell me ‘Christopher,’ and I’ll give you the world.” He paused, eyes
locking on hers, then added softer, “Kiss me before you leave—so I have
somethin’ to dream about.”
Her breath caught, the weight of his words pulling her back
to 1999—that dorm lobby, his lips fierce and desperate, the promise of “until
the day I die” burning between them. She nodded, unable to speak, and leaned
into him. “Christopher,” she whispered, the name a vow, and he pulled her
close, arms wrapping tight around her.
He kissed her then, like he had in ‘99—intense, raw, a flood
of longing and uncertainty crashing through every touch. His lips pressed hard
against hers, one hand cupping her face, the other gripping her waist as if she
might slip away. It was a kiss that held twelve years of ache, the fear of
losing her again, the fragile hope of one last chance. She melted into it,
hands clutching his shoulders, giving back every ounce of what she’d
carried—love, regret, the life they’d never had. It stretched on, timeless,
until air forced them apart, breaths ragged, hearts pounding.
He held her a moment longer, forehead to hers, then let go
slow, like it cost him everything. “Go,” he rasped, voice breaking. “But
that—that’s mine to keep.”
She stood, legs shaky, smoothing her blouse as tears pricked
her eyes. “Until tonight,” she said, more to herself than him, and turned for
the door. The highway waited—three hours of rough patches and slow crawls—but
that kiss rode with her, a dream to cling to as she ducked out of his life
again, if only for a little while.
Chapter Fifteen: The Road South
Late March, 2012
Elizabeth Gonzalez Torres pulled the Corolla’s door shut
with a soft thud, the engine coughing to life as she backed out of
Christopher’s gravel drive. The college town faded in her rearview, his
weathered house shrinking to a speck, but that kiss—fierce, desperate, an echo
of ‘99—still seared her lips. She could feel his arms around her, the woody
scent of him clinging to her blouse, his voice rasping, “Kiss me before you
leave—so I have somethin’ to dream about.” It rode with her, a tether to the
couch, to him, as she turned south onto the highway.
The road stretched ahead, a jagged ribbon of construction
chaos—new asphalt glinting in patches, rough gravel stretches rattling her
tires, speed limits flipping between 45 and 30 mph like a taunt. Three hours to
the office, if the work crews didn’t clog it worse. Dust swirled in her wake,
the late March sun glaring off the windshield, and she gripped the wheel
tighter, her watch ticking past 12:15. She’d be cutting it close—3 p.m. loomed,
her Friday shift light but unskippable. After that, four o’clock freedom, and
the excuse she’d spin for Mama to steal a few more hours.
She fumbled for her phone in the passenger seat, the cracked
leather creaking as she fished it out from under her purse. One bar of signal
flickered—spotty out here, but it’d hold long enough. She dialed Maria
Gonzalez, her mother’s voice crackling through on the third ring. “Lizzie? You
alright, mija?”
“Yeah, Mama,” Elizabeth said, forcing a steadiness she
didn’t feel, eyes flicking between the road and a pothole she swerved to miss.
“Just checking in. Work’s running late today—might grab drinks with the nurses
after. Can Erica stay with you ‘til tonight?”
Maria’s pause hummed through the line, a mother’s radar
pinging. “Drinks, huh? You sound tired, Lizzie. Everything okay with David
gone?” Her tone was soft, probing, the kind that saw through flimsy lies.
Elizabeth swallowed, David’s cold hands flashing in her
mind, then Christopher’s warm ones erasing them. “Fine, Mama. Just a long week.
Erica good?”
“She’s a dream,” Maria said, warmth breaking through. “We’re
baking cookies—your girl’s got flour everywhere. Take your time, mija, but
don’t overdo it.”
“Thanks, Mama,” Elizabeth muttered, guilt gnawing at the
edges of her relief. She hung up, tossing the phone back onto the seat, and let
out a shaky breath. Maria hadn’t bought it—not fully—but she wouldn’t push. Not
yet.
The highway jolted under her, a rough patch jarring her
teeth as the speed dropped to 30. She cursed under her breath, easing off the
gas, the Corolla groaning over uneven gravel. Three hours felt like forever
with this mess—every mile a tug pulling her from Christopher, every bump a
reminder of the life waiting south. But luck or stubbornness held; the road
smoothed out in stretches, and she rolled into town at 2:30 p.m., the Corolla’s
tires humming against fresh pavement as she pulled up to the office.
She killed the engine, grabbing her bag, and bolted
inside—time enough to change, maybe even shower if she hurried. The office was
quiet, a skeleton crew on Fridays, and she slipped into the staff room, the
faint hum of a fluorescent light overhead. A fresh set of scrubs and her lab
coat hung in the closet, crisp and waiting; she’d swap into those, ditch the
dusty blouse and jeans from Christopher’s. A quick rinse in the shower
stall—five minutes, tops—washed off the road grit and his scent, though it lingered
in her mind. She’d stash the scrubs in the trunk later, pull on the casual
clothes tucked in her office closet—jeans, a soft green top, nothing fancy.
Show up at Christopher’s like that, unscripted. And do what, exactly? Seduce
him? Toy with him? Make him fall in love with her all over again?
The pain and worry in his cloudy blue eyes flashed
back—sharp, raw, a knife twisting in her own chest. Loving her had cost him
everything—years of booze, a life half-lived—and here she was, ready to demand
that price again. She tugged on the scrubs, the fabric cool against her skin,
and stared at her reflection in the locker mirror. What if they were caught? An
affair exposed would torch her world—scandal forcing her to uproot, leave town,
her career in ashes. David’s cold behavior would be shrugged off, justified—“Poor
guy, his wife cheated.” She’d be the villain, he the victim, his victory over
Christopher cemented in pity.
Cheating. Was it really cheating? David saw her as a trophy,
his one win after years of humiliation in Christopher’s shadow—sax to trombone,
charm to grit. Now he was out east, grooming himself for politics, his ambition
hardening into something colder. What if he gained power? Would he send people
after Christopher—thugs or worse—to erase the threat? Would he come for her and
Erica, demanding their daughter just to cut her deepest? How far would David
fight to keep her, to own her? Uncle Ruben Gonzalez’s half-drunk hints
echoed—Mateo would hire muscle, maybe even cartel, to hold the family together.
Was he serious, or just spinning tales? So many threats dangled above her head,
ready to shatter her life, and Christopher had warned her last night—“You don’t
know what you’re diggin’ up, Liz.”
She shook it off, tying her hair back, slipping into the lab
coat. Time to get in character—doctor, not dreamer. A patient waited, a day to
wrap up, then she’d head north again, back to Christopher, to fulfill that
dream he’d begged for in person. It had to work out. Life had clawed at them
both too long—him with his bottles, her with her cage—and she craved a few
moments of happiness before the clock ran dry. She grabbed her stethoscope, the
weight grounding her, and stepped out to face the day, the road north already
burning in her chest.
Chapter 16: The Night of Ana
Late March 2012
Elizabeth Gonzalez Torres tore out of her driveway, the
engine of her weathered sedan growling as she sped north, three hours
stretching ahead on a highway dusted with moonlight and regret. Her clean green
top and jeans clung to her, still crisp from the day’s end, a stark contrast to
the chaos churning inside. David’s cold voice echoed in her mind—his latest
barb about her “duty,” his manipulative grip tightening like a noose—but
tonight, she’d fled it all, chasing the one place she could breathe. Christopher’s
home. The clock on the dash blinked past 9 p.m. as she pulled up, tires
crunching gravel, her heart hammering with a need she couldn’t name.
She stumbled to the porch, the weathered door creaking open
under her trembling hand. Inside, Christopher Williams sat slouched in his
recliner, a Shiner Bock sweating in his grip, his guitar propped across his
lap. His voice—rough, warm—filled the dim room, crooning a half-finished tune
about lost roads and faded love. At 34, his shaggy brown hair framed a face
etched with quiet ache, but those cloudy blue eyes snapped up as she stepped
in, the song dying mid-note. He set the guitar aside with a clatter, surging to
his feet, and met her in the doorway before she could speak.
“I need you right—” Elizabeth’s words barely escaped before
his lips crashed into hers, fierce and desperate, lifting her off the floor in
a single, fluid motion. Her arms looped around his neck, fingers tangling in
his hair as he carried her, her legs dangling, the world tilting under his
kiss. He set her down gently by the couch, her boots brushing the faded rug,
and their lips parted, leaving her breathless. Damn, she thought, chest
heaving, he never ceases to knock me off my feet with that kiss. That longing,
that…
“You always take my breath away, Sir Christopher,” she
murmured, her voice husky, jade-green eyes blazing up at him with a fire that
hadn’t dimmed since ‘99.
He grinned, crooked and tender, brushing a strand of black
hair from her face. “You deserve nothing less than to be loved, Liz. Think of
it as the price I pay for so many years apart.” His hands lingered at her
waist, steady and warm, a promise in his touch.
“Make love to me, Christopher,” she whispered, her voice
breaking with need. “Make me feel like I’m blessed again…” The words hung
between them, raw and unguarded, stripping away the years of David’s cold
prize-winning grasp, Mateo’s threats, the life she’d built to protect Erica.
Christopher’s eyes darkened with a quiet intensity, and he
scooped her up again, cradling her against his chest like she weighed nothing.
Her breath hitched as he carried her down the short hall, past the clutter of
his bachelor life—sheet music, empty bottles, a trombone case gathering dust—to
his bedroom. The door clicked shut behind them, sealing out the world, and in
that shadowed space, it was just them—two souls clawing back what time had
stolen.
Chapter 17: Falling Out
April 2012
Elizabeth Gonzalez Torres slipped away night after night,
the three-hour drive north to Christopher’s home a lifeline she clung to with
every mile. For days after that first desperate reunion, she returned—each time
tumbling into his arms, their love a tender, fiery thing that erased the years
apart. At 33, she found in his touch what David’s cold, manipulative grip had
stripped away—passion, tenderness, a sense of being wanted, not won. She was no
longer his participation trophy, a prize for his sharp ambition; with
Christopher, she was alive, not a shadow of the girl Mateo and David had
molded. But the longing gnawed at her every waking hour, a sweet torture
knowing three hours separated her from the only man she’d truly loved her adult
life.
By the second week, April 6 crept up—Christopher’s 35th
birthday. She’d planned something special, a flicker of joy to mark the day.
She arrived at his weathered home just past dusk, the air thick with spring
heat, a sheer black lingerie set tucked in her bag. He met her at the door,
guitar idle in his lap, a Shiner Bock half-drunk beside him, his cloudy blue
eyes lighting up as she stepped inside. “Happy birthday, Sir Christopher,” she
said, her voice playful, jade-green eyes dancing as she leaned in to kiss him.
He pulled her close, lifting her off the floor with that
effortless strength, their lips meeting in a familiar, breathless rush. She
laughed against his mouth, breaking away to tease, “I’ve got something for
you—something special.” She stepped back, reaching for her bag, but his hands
caught hers, stopping her cold.
“Liz,” he said, voice low and steady, those eyes locking
onto hers with an intensity that stole her breath. “The only gift I want is
you. David be damned. I want you to myself—to never let go of you again.”
Her heart slammed against her ribs, the words hitting her
differently—sharp, heavy, a demand she hadn’t braced for. “I’m here now, aren’t
I?” she replied, softer, searching his face. “Isn’t that what matters?”
“No,” he said, his tone hardening, stepping closer. “I want
you, Elizabeth—all of you. I don’t care anymore what he thinks, what they do.
Let Mateo and David make a deal with Satan himself—I won’t let go.”
She faltered, her breath catching as panic edged in. “I
can’t leave David right now, Chris. Not with Erica to think of. He and my
father—they’d hunt us down, take her from me. You don’t know what they’re
like.”
“I do know,” he shot back, his voice rising, rough with
years of buried fury. “I’ve known since ‘99—Mateo’s shotgun, David’s jealousy.
I don’t give a damn. Come away with me, Elizabeth. Take Erica, and we’ll leave
the state. I’ve got friends up north who can protect us—they’ll never find us.
We can be happy.”
She shook her head, tears pricking her eyes, her voice
trembling but firm. “I can’t do that to my daughter—or David. He loves Erica;
she’s his whole world. We’d have to make a clean break, or he’d spend his life
and every ounce of his influence hunting us down. We’d never be safe, Chris.
Never.”
Christopher’s jaw tightened, his hands dropping to his
sides. “So this is it? Sneaking around behind everyone’s back? I don’t want
that, Liz. I want to tell the whole damn world about you, me, us—together, out
in the open.”
“I’m not saying no to that,” she pleaded, stepping toward
him, her voice breaking. “I’m saying not yet. Be patient, Chris—I promise I’ll
make it worth it. You know I’m good for it.”
He exhaled, a bitter edge creeping in. “So this is how it’s
gonna be with you? A tawdry affair—cheating, hiding?” His words cut deep, and
she felt the shift, the tenderness souring.
“Don’t you dare,” she snapped, anger flaring hot in her
chest. “Don’t bring up the Elizabeth from college like I’m some ghost you can
judge. You crushed me—twice—and now you expect everything to be happiness and
roses? I’m going home. I don’t much feel like your company right now.”
His face darkened, a storm brewing in those blue eyes as he
stepped into her path. “If you leave now, Elizabeth, don’t come back—ever.
There are things I’ve done to keep you safe, too, you know.”
She froze for a heartbeat, his words a jagged hook, but the
fury won out. She shoved past him, storming through the door into the night,
the gravel crunching under her boots as she yanked her car door open. The
engine roared to life, and she peeled away, headlights slicing through the
dark, her hands trembling on the wheel.
Christopher stood in the doorway, watching her taillights
vanish down the road, the silence crashing in around him. “Dear sweet Jesus,”
he muttered, his voice cracking, hands raking through his hair. “What have I
just done?” The guitar sat abandoned, the beer warm and flat, the weight of her
absence already sinking into his bones.
Chapter 18: The Grocery Store
Approx. 2016, Fort Stockton
Elizabeth Gonzalez Torres guided the cart through the Fort
Stockton grocery store, the faint hum of overhead fans stirring the still air.
Erica, six and a half, skipped alongside, her dark hair bouncing as she hummed
a tune, jade-green eyes bright with her mother’s fire and David’s steady
resolve. Ana, three and a half, sat in the cart’s seat, clutching a sunflower
sticker Elizabeth had pressed into her palm, her cloudy blue-green eyes—so
achingly like his—darting around with quiet wonder. It was a detour on a
friend’s visit, a brief escape from the sharp, cold tension of home, where
David’s manipulative grip tightened around her like a prize he’d won. The girls
were her light, her shield, and today, a tether to something softer.
She paused by the cereal aisle, scanning for Erica’s
favorite, when a familiar voice cut through the murmur of the store—a low, warm
drawl she hadn’t heard in years. “Well, I’ll be damned.” Her heart stuttered,
and she turned, cart creaking, to see Christopher Williams, 38, standing by the
endcap, a six-pack of Shiner Bock dangling from his hand. His flannel shirt
hung loose, gray threading his shaggy brown hair, but those cloudy blue eyes
sparkled with recognition. Rachel, his wife, stood a step away, browsing canned
goods, her auburn hair catching the light, unaware of the history unfolding.
“Sir Christopher!” Elizabeth exclaimed, a grin breaking
across her face as she pushed the cart toward him, her voice lifting with a
playful lilt that echoed ‘99. She hugged him quick and fierce, planting a kiss
on his cheek, her jade-green eyes twinkling. “Never thought I’d catch you in a
place like this.”
He chuckled, the sound rough but warm, returning the hug
with a gentle squeeze. “Liz, you’re a sight for sore eyes. What’s a gal like
you doin’ this far from home?” His gaze softened, drifting to Erica and Ana,
and lingered on Ana—those eyes, his eyes, staring back from her small face. A
flicker of something tender crossed his features, but he buried it quick,
nodding at the girls. “These your little blessings?”
Elizabeth blushed, her smile widening as she ruffled Erica’s
hair. “My girls—Erica and Ana. Say hi to Sir Christopher, babies.” Erica waved,
grinning—“Hi, Sir Christopher!”—while Ana tilted her head, offering a shy
smile, the sunflower sticker peeling at the edges.
Rachel turned, her smile bright and easy. “Liz! Oh, it’s
good to see you.” She stepped closer, resting a hand on Christopher’s arm, then
glanced at the girls. “They’re precious—look at those eyes. Family trait?”
Elizabeth’s laugh was light, deflecting. “Something like
that.” Her gaze flicked to Christopher, a shared secret shimmering between
them—four years since 2012, since she’d driven alone to his home, three hours
north, their love confined to stolen nights behind his weathered walls. David’s
sharp, protective jealousy and Mateo’s old threats had kept them cautious, but
here, in this chance moment, it felt safe.
Christopher crouched to Erica’s level, his voice warm. “Hey,
darlin’, you still tellin’ stories like your mama?” Erica nodded, beaming—he’d
heard her chatter years back, a fleeting memory from Elizabeth’s tales. He
straightened, looking at Ana, and his smile softened further. “And you, little
one—what’s that sticker?”
“Sunflower,” Ana mumbled, holding it up, her eyes locking
with his. Elizabeth’s chest tightened, but she kept her smile steady.
“Her favorite,” she said, brushing Ana’s hair. “Like her
mama’s.” She met Christopher’s gaze again, and for a heartbeat, it was just
them—1999, the horse pens, that sunflower tucked behind her ear.
Rachel nudged Christopher, her tone teasing. “Honey, you
gonna introduce me proper, or am I just here to hold the beer?” She grinned at
Elizabeth. “He’s told me about you—‘the one that got away,’ he says. I’m
Rachel.”
Elizabeth laughed, a spark of mischief in her eyes. “Oh,
shame on you, Sir Christopher, spilling my secrets to your lovely wife! Guess
I’m not the only one with a keeper now.” She winked at Rachel, who blushed but
smiled back, a knowing glint in her eye.
“Only the good parts,” Christopher said, his grin crooked.
“Wouldn’t dare tarnish your legend, Liz.” His voice dipped soft on her name, a
rare slip that carried decades of love.
“Mama, who’s Sir Christopher?” Erica piped up, tugging her
sleeve. “The man from your stories?”
Elizabeth crouched beside her, her smile tender. “He’s an
old friend, baby doll. Before you and Ana, he was the handsomest knight I
knew—still is, I reckon.” She glanced at Christopher, her eyes dancing. “Stole
my heart once, but your daddy’s got it now.”
“Did he take you to a castle?” Ana asked, her voice small
but curious.
“No castle, sweetie,” Christopher said, chuckling. “Just a
beat-up old house. But your mama made it feel like one.” He patted his chest, a
faint echo of his old promise. “Kept her heart safe ‘til she found your daddy.”
Erica tilted her head, serious now. “You loved Mama’s green
eyes, right? I’ve got green eyes too. Am I special?”
“You’re special to your mama, darlin’,” he said, his voice
thick with warmth. “And yeah, those eyes—same fire I fell for.” He looked at
Elizabeth, and she smiled back, a quiet ache in her chest.
“We’ve got to run,” she said, straightening, her tone
softening. “Good seein’ you, Sir Christopher.” She kissed his cheek again,
lingering a half-breath longer than before. “And you, Rachel—keep him in line.”
“Always,” Rachel replied, her grin warm. “Take care, Liz.”
Elizabeth pushed the cart away, Erica waving—“Bye, Sir
Christopher!”—and Ana clutching her sticker. He watched them go, the Shiner
cold in his hand, Rachel’s chatter fading to a hum. Ana’s eyes—his eyes—burned
in his mind, a truth he’d suspected since 2012, since those nights at his home.
He didn’t speak it, didn’t chase her—honor and love held him fast—but the
splinter lodged deeper, a piece of her he’d never claim.
Rachel squeezed his arm. “She’s somethin’, huh? You okay?”
“Yeah,” he said, forcing a smile. “Just a ghost walkin’
outta the past.” But as Elizabeth vanished around the aisle, he knew—she’d
always be the one that got away.
Chapter 19: The Silent Seed
April 17, 2012
Elizabeth Gonzalez Torres stood in the bathroom of her home,
the faint hum of the vent fan muffling the world beyond the locked door. The
stick trembled in her hand—two pink lines glaring back, stark against the white
plastic. Pregnant. Her breath hitched, a sharp sound swallowed by the tiled
silence. It was April 17, 2012, eleven days since she’d fled Christopher’s
home—his fierce kiss a fading burn on her lips, their love shattered by his
ultimatum and her refusal. That night weeks ago, late March, his arms had
encircled her, tender and desperate, their rekindled passion spilling into
something undeniable. Nine months from now, late December, there’d be a child.
His child.
She sank onto the tub’s edge, the cold porcelain biting
through her jeans, and pressed a hand to her mouth. Erica, not yet three,
napped down the hall, oblivious to the storm tearing through her mother’s
chest. David was on the East Coast, his eight-month assignment dragging until
November, his last call sharp and cold—another case won, his lawyer’s voice
dripping with control, no warmth left. He’d return before the baby came, claim
it as his own, and she’d let him. She had to. But this—this was Christopher’s,
a secret blooming inside her she’d never share.
Her fingers brushed the light blue blouse folded on the
counter, still faintly scented with his cologne—woody, worn, a trace of their
stolen nights at his place. She’d driven there alone, three hours north on a
rough highway, night after night since late March—always cautious, never
together, David’s sharp vigilance and her father’s old threats a constant
shadow. They’d shared tea with sunflower petals, his guitar humming low, their
bodies tangled in a desperate bid to reclaim what Mateo and David had conspired
to tear apart thirteen years ago. On his birthday, April 6, she’d gone to him
one last time—lingerie in her bag, a gift turned to ash by his demand: I want
you to myself, David be damned. She’d stormed out after his final words—Don’t
come back, ever—the echo of their fight still raw. She’d meant to tell him
once, weeks earlier, the promise of “soon” faltering as she’d kissed him
goodbye. But she hadn’t. The risk was too great—her father’s shotgun, David’s
possessive grip, Erica’s future. Christopher would fight for her, his cloudy
blue eyes blazing with honor, demanding she run with him. And she couldn’t—not
with David’s fierce loyalty to Erica, his legal power poised to take her.
She stood, shoving the test deep into the trash beneath a
wad of tissues, and splashed water on her face. The mirror reflected a woman
fraying at the edges—jade-green eyes red-rimmed, black hair tangled from
restless nights since the fallout. She’d bury this, no calls or letters to
Christopher—he’d sent enough in ‘99, all burned by Mateo, and David’s cold
pride would catch any slip now. He’d assume the baby was his, his manipulative
certainty blinding him, and she’d play the prize he’d won—wife, mother, doctor—until
she could break free. Her hand drifted to her stomach, a flicker of warmth
piercing the fear. A piece of Christopher, hers alone.
The months dragged on, heavy and slow. She rode Felix at a
friend’s ranch when she could, Erica giggling in the saddle, the horse pens a
refuge where she whispered his name—Christopher, Sir Christopher—letting the
sunflowers along the fence carry her secret. Maria noticed her glow, called it
“a mother’s joy,” and Mateo stayed silent, his protective shadow looming as
ever. David returned in November, leaner and sharper, eight years as a lawyer
fueling his ambition. He held her that night, mechanical yet possessive, and
when Ana was born December 28, 2012—dark hair, jade-green eyes softened by a
quiet, cloudy depth—he didn’t question it. “She’s beautiful,” he said, voice
cold but fiercely proud, his loyalty to his daughters absolute, and Elizabeth
nodded, her smile a fragile veil over the truth.
She wrote it in her diary, late at night when the house
slept, the words spilling out in tight, trembling script: “December 28, 2012.
Ana Torres born. His eyes, I think—cloudy blue beneath the green. I didn’t tell
him. I can’t. He’d come for me, and David would take them both—his prize, his
girls. But she’s ours, even if he’ll never know.” She locked the book away, its
leather a vault for the secret she’d guard—until she could escape the cage
David and Mateo had built around her.
Chapter 20: Erica’s Journey
Summer 2045
Erica Torres pulled up to Ana’s modest Dallas home, the late
July sun scorching the quiet street, her electric car humming to a stop. At 35,
her black hair bore streaks of gray, etched by years of raising Mateo and Sofia
in San Angelo with Javier, and now by the secrets she carried. In the passenger
seat sat her mother’s worn leather diary and For Elizabeth and Her Daughters,
plucked from Christopher’s weathered shack weeks ago (Ch. 9, 13). Her chest
tightened as she clutched them, jade-green eyes burning with resolve. She
stumbled to the door, knuckles rapping frantically against the wood, the weight
of truth driving her forward.
The door swung open, and Ana Torres stood there—32, dark
hair framing a softer face, her cloudy blue-green eyes widening in shock.
“Cica?” she gasped, her childhood nickname for Erica tumbling out, and she
lunged forward, wrapping her big sister in a fierce hug. Erica stiffened, the
diary and book pressed between them, then melted into it, a fleeting reprieve
from her burden. “God, it’s been—what, two years?” Ana pulled back, grinning,
ushering her inside. “Come in, sit—I can’t believe you’re here!”
They sank onto Ana’s couch, the air cool with recycled
filters, a faint hum softening the silence. For a moment, Erica’s mission
faded, swept away by Ana’s warmth. “Thanksgiving ‘43,” Erica said, a smile
tugging at her lips. “Mateo dumped gravy all over Javier’s lap, and Sofia drew
that turkey with crayons on the wall.”
Ana laughed, a bright sound that echoed their mother’s. “Oh,
I forgot that! Poor Javi. And Sofia—she’s got Mom’s spark, doesn’t she?” Her
smile softened, eyes drifting to memories. “Speaking of Mom, remember riding
Felix with her? How she’d hoist us up, one at a time, and we’d trot around
those horse pens?”
Erica nodded, the image vivid—Elizabeth’s dark hair whipping
in the wind, Felix’s creaking gait steady beneath them. “I’d cling to her
waist, giggling like mad. You were braver—always begging to go faster. And that
field of sunflowers next to the pens—she’d braid them into our hair, call us
her ‘sunflower girls.’”
“Those were the best days,” Ana said, leaning back, her
voice wistful. “Sometimes she’d pack us into the car after, drive us three
hours north to that college town for events. Football games, concerts—I
remember her humming the whole way, windows down.”
“The band concerts,” Erica added, her smile widening. “She’d
drag us to the auditorium, saying we needed culture. I’d fidget, but you’d sit
there, eyes huge, like you could hear every note. Dad hated those trips—too
far, he’d say—but he was usually gone anyway.”
Ana nodded, a flicker of pride in her eyes. “Yeah, Dad’s
trips with the firm—Smetherton, Stanley & Torres. He’d be off with those
corporate hotshots, working some big East Coast deal. Remember how he’d come
back with those little keychains for us? Planes, gavels—corny stuff.”
“Made full partner right after you were born,” Erica said,
her tone shifting slightly, a shadow creeping in. “That East Coast stint in
‘12—he laid the groundwork, brought in so much they gave him the title. Mom
said it was his reward for being gone eight months. They owned a third of the
firm by then—Grandpa Mateo used that chunk to put them through school, pay for
their wedding. Rest bought the house, got them started in a new city.”
“Modest homes, she’d call them,” Ana chuckled, oblivious to
Erica’s tightening grip on the books. “But it was enough. Dad was so proud—said
it was all for us, his girls. Those trips built our life.”
The mention of sunflowers snapped Erica back—Christopher’s
final act, that fresh bloom on their mother’s grave at Pineview (Ch. 13), a
silent thread to those childhood fields. She shifted, her voice dropping low.
“Ana, speaking of trips—do you remember a man we met years ago? At the Fort
Stockton grocery store, back in 2016?”
Ana frowned, tilting her head. “Sort of. A guy with a
beard—Mom called him ‘Sir Christopher,’ right? You were all over him,
chattering away, and I had that sunflower sticker. It’s fuzzy—why?”
Erica exhaled, steadying herself, jade-green eyes locking
onto Ana’s. “I went to see him nine years ago, in 2036. Found Mom’s diary from
2009—her fighting with Dad, going to Christopher’s place. He told me things.
About you.”
Ana’s smile faded, unease flickering across her face. “What things?”
“He hinted…” Erica swallowed, voice trembling. “He hinted
you might not be Dad’s. That Mom got what she wanted from him—later, after me.
I didn’t believe it fully, not ‘til I read this.” She thrust the diary and For
Elizabeth and Her Daughters toward Ana. “It’s in here—Mom’s words, his. Her
nights with him in 2012, after I was born. The diary says she knew she was
pregnant with you, and she never told him.”
Ana recoiled, hands shoving the books back, her cloudy eyes
flashing with anger. “No. You’re wrong, Cica. I’m David Torres’s daughter—not
some bastard from a fling Mom had with a drunk musician. That’s crazy!”
“Read them yourself,” Erica pressed, voice rising, pushing
the books closer. “Christopher wrote it—those nights at his home, three hours
north. The diary backs it—April ‘12, she found out, kept it secret. It’s the
truth, Ana.”
Fury flared in Ana’s gaze, her voice sharp as she leapt up.
“Get out. I don’t need your lies tearing up my life—Dad’s life, the one he
built for us!” She grabbed Erica’s arm, dragging her toward the door.
“Ana, wait!” Erica resisted, boots scuffing the floor, tears
pricking her eyes. “You need to know what Dad did—what Dad and Grandpa Mateo
did! They trapped her—conspired to keep her from Christopher, forced her into
that life with the firm, the house, all of it. It’s important!”
“Get out!” Ana shouted, shoving harder, her voice breaking
as she forced Erica onto the stoop. “I’ll call the cops—tell them a vagrant’s
breaking in!” The door slammed shut, the lock snapping into place, Ana’s
muffled yell—“Leave!”—cutting through the wood.
Erica pounded on it, tears streaming down her face. “Ana,
please! It’s the truth—about Dad, Grandpa, everything!” Her fists slowed, then
fell, the books clutched tight against her chest. Ana’s silence answered, heavy
and final. With a ragged sob, Erica turned to her car, the Dallas heat
swallowing her as she slid inside, the sting of rejection sharper than the
secrets she’d carried.
Chapter 21: A Call for Help
2018
Elizabeth Gonzalez Torres paced the bedroom of her home, the
phone trembling in her hand as the clock ticked past midnight. At 39,
exhaustion carved deep lines into her face, her jade-green eyes dulled by years
under David’s sharp, manipulative grip. Erica, 8-9, and Ana, 5-6, slept down
the hall, their soft breathing a fragile tether in the storm of her marriage.
David was away again, his latest trip with Smetherton, Stanley & Torres
stretching into weeks, his cold voice on the last call—“This case is everything,
Liz”—a stark reminder of the prize she’d become. The life Mateo and David had
conspired to lock her into back in 2004 felt like a cage closing tighter, and
tonight, she couldn’t bear it any longer.
She dialed, the number etched into her memory from ‘99, her
breath hitching as it rang. Three hours north, Christopher Williams answered,
his voice rough with sleep at 40, the familiar creak of his weathered home
faint in the background. “Liz? What’s wrong?”
“Sir Christopher,” she whispered, a tremor threading through
her tone, “I need your help. I can’t stay with him—I want out.” She knew he was
married to Rachel now—had seen them together in Fort Stockton two years ago
(Ch. 18)—a fact that stung but didn’t stop her. Her voice cracked, raw with
desperation. “David’s worse, Chris. I’m drowning.”
He paused, the silence heavy, his breath audible as he
processed her words. “Liz, you know I’d do anything for you,” he said finally,
low and pained. “But I can’t—not right now. Rachel, the tech firm… I’m tied up.
Hang in there, darlin’. I’ll find a way to help—just give me time.”
Her heart sank, a sob catching in her throat. “Time’s what I
don’t have,” she said, tears pricking her eyes. “He’s suffocating me, and I
can’t—” She stopped, the weight of Erica and Ana pressing down. “I can’t leave
yet. The girls—he’d take them. His firm, his legal clout—he’d bury me.”
“I know he would,” Christopher replied, his voice steady but
thick with frustration. “I’ve seen what he’s like—sharp as a blade, loyal to
those girls like they’re his whole damn world. I’ll figure something out, Liz.
Just… hold on. For me.”
She nodded into the dark, though he couldn’t see, her grip
tightening on the phone. “I’ll try,” she murmured, the promise hollow against
the despair clawing at her chest. “Thank you, Sir Christopher.” She hung up,
the line cutting dead, and sank onto the bed, the faint scent of David’s
cologne on the sheets a bitter reminder of the cage she couldn’t yet escape.
Dawn broke hours later, slanting through the kitchen blinds
as she stood at the counter, a mug of coffee cooling untouched in her hands.
Her black hair hung tangled from a restless night, her eyes staring blankly at
the life she’d built. Erica and Ana shuffled in, sleepy and soft in their
pajamas, Erica chattering about school, Ana clutching a stuffed horse Felix had
inspired. Their innocence was her anchor—and her chain. David’s absence
stretched on, his East Coast trips for Smetherton, Stanley & Torres a reprieve
she both craved and dreaded. He’d made partner in 2013, shortly after Ana’s
birth, the groundwork laid during that eight-month stint in 2012 (Ch. 19)
cementing his power. Mateo’s third of the firm had funded their education,
their wedding, their modest home—her father’s protective shadow as suffocating
as David’s ambition. She’d played the prize he’d won, the wife to his success,
but Christopher’s words—I’ll find a way—stirred a longing she couldn’t shake.
She’d seen him in 2016 (Ch. 18), his life with Rachel steady
while hers frayed. Their stolen nights in 2012 (Ch. 16), the fallout on his
birthday (Ch. 17)—Don’t come back, ever—had ended with Ana, a secret buried
deep (Ch. 19). Now, she’d begged him again, and he’d asked for time she didn’t
have. Erica tugged at her sleeve. “Mama, can we ride Felix today?” Elizabeth
forced a smile, nodding—those horse pens, the sunflowers, her refuge with the
girls. “Soon, baby doll,” she said, voice steady despite the ache. Ana climbed
into a chair, humming a tune Elizabeth recognized—Holst, from Christopher’s
college band days (For Her, For Erica, Ch. 1)—and her heart twisted.
She couldn’t run—not yet. David would hunt them down, his
love for his daughters a weapon sharper than his cold pride. Christopher’s
promise was a lifeline, but she’d wait, trapped by the girls she’d never risk
losing. She sipped the coffee, bitter on her tongue, and resolved to endure—for
now, for them, until time or fate broke the cage.
Chapter 22: The Promise Kept
Spring to Late Summer 2022
Elizabeth Gonzalez Torres sat on the edge of her bed, the
phone pressed to her ear, her voice steady despite the tremor beneath. At 43,
the weight of years with David—his cold ambition, his possessive pride—had
carved deep lines into her resolve. Spring sunlight slanted through the window
of her home, Erica (12) and Ana (9) at school, their laughter a distant echo
she clung to. David was home now, his partnership at Smetherton, Stanley &
Torres cemented since 2013, but the tension between them had thickened into
silence, his latest call—“Focus on the girls, Liz”—a sharp reminder of the
prize she’d become. She dialed Christopher again, three hours north, her
lifeline fraying.
“Chris, it’s me,” she said, softer this time. “I need your
help—really this time. I’m done with him.”
Christopher Williams, 44, answered, his voice warm but
weary, the faint hum of his life with Rachel and his tech firm job threading
through. “Liz, you mean it?” Her call stirred the old fire, a flicker of 1999
beneath his steady days. “What do you need?”
“Out,” she said, firm. “I can’t breathe here. But I need
time—Erica, Ana—they’re his world. He’ll fight.”
“I’ll help,” he said, no hesitation now. “Give me a few
months—I’ll make it work. Meet me in Fort Stockton, late summer—neutral ground.
I’ll have something for you.” He hung up, and she exhaled, the plan a fragile
thread in the chaos of her cage.
By late August, Christopher acted. He retired from the tech
firm, cashed out his $200,000 nest egg—every cent of his stability—and set the
meeting. Elizabeth drove alone, the three-hour trek south from her home a blur
of nerves and hope, her bag empty but her resolve full. She pulled into the
dusty lot of a Fort Stockton convenience store, the same town where they’d
crossed paths in 2016 (Ch. 18), the air thick with summer heat. She spotted him
near the entrance—flannel shirt rumpled, gray threading his shaggy brown
hair—but he wasn’t alone.
A tall Mexican man stood beside him, lean and imposing, his
dark sunglasses masking eyes that seemed to pierce the world around him.
Raul-Manche, Christopher called him, voice low as he nodded her over. A
straight razor glinted at his waistband, tucked against a faded black shirt,
its handle worn but sharp. Elizabeth froze, her breath catching. He didn’t
move, didn’t speak, but she felt his awareness—every car pulling in, every
shuffle behind him, cataloged with a predator’s precision. His face was serious,
carved with lines that hinted at violence if needed, a stark contrast to
Christopher’s tender warmth.
Where did he meet such a man? she wondered, her gut
twisting. All her life, Christopher had been her gentle knight—lifting her on
Paco in ‘99 (Ch. 2, For Elizabeth, For Me), kissing her breathless in 2012 (Ch.
16)—yet here he stood with what her instincts screamed was a cartel foot
soldier. She’d glimpsed that world once, in 1999 (Ch. 10), when Raul’s shadow
had brushed Christopher’s life, a debt unspoken but paid. Now, Raul-Manche’s
presence unnerved her, yet her gut whispered she was safe—his stillness a shield,
not a threat.
“Liz,” Christopher said, stepping forward, his cloudy blue
eyes soft with relief. “You’re here.” He pulled her into a quick hug, his
cologne—woody, worn—grounding her as Raul watched, silent.
“Who’s he?” she murmured, glancing at Raul, her voice tight.
“A friend,” Christopher said, low and firm. “Someone who
makes sure things go smooth. Don’t worry—he’s with me.” He reached into a
duffel at his feet, pulling out a thick stack of cash, and pressed it into her
hands. “Two hundred grand. All I’ve got. Use it—get free.”
She stared at the money, tears brimming as her fingers
closed around it. “Chris, this… it’s everything.” Her gaze flicked to Raul
again—those sunglasses, that razor—then back to Christopher. The tender man
she’d loved stood beside a shadow she didn’t know, and the clash made her
stomach churn. Yet Raul’s presence, steady and unyielding, felt like a wall
between her and David’s reach. She tucked the cash into her bag, her plan
forming—stash it in a lockbox, wait for arbitration to break the cage.
“Thank you, Sir Christopher,” she whispered, stepping close
to kiss his cheek, the old nickname a lifeline through her unease. He nodded,
eyes heavy with love and loss, and squeezed her hand.
“Be safe, Liz,” he said, voice rough. “Go.”
She glanced at Raul one last time—his head tilted slightly,
as if sensing her every thought—and nodded faintly. She climbed into her car,
the cash a heavy promise against her thigh, and drove south, three hours back
to the life she’d soon shatter. Christopher watched her taillights fade, Raul
silent at his side, the weight of her freedom now his burden too.
Chapter 23: Erica’s Refuge
Summer 2045
Erica Torres drove the long stretch from Dallas to San
Angelo, tears blurring the highway as Ana’s rejection echoed in her skull—“Get
out! I’ll call the cops!” The six-hour trip was a haze of sobs, her jade-green
eyes red and swollen by the time her electric car hummed into the driveway of
their modest home. It was late evening, the July air thick with heat, and she
stumbled out, clutching her mother’s worn leather diary and For Elizabeth and
Her Daughters, the weight of her sister’s fury crushing her chest.
The front door swung open before she could knock, and Javier
Torres stood there—38, broad-shouldered, his dark eyes softening at the sight
of her. “Cica?” he said, voice low with worry, stepping forward to pull her
into his arms. She collapsed against him, sobbing into his chest, the books
pressed between them. “Hey, hey—what happened?” he murmured, holding her tight,
his hands steady on her back.
“Javier’s my Sir William, my rock,” she thought, the
nickname a silent balm as her tears soaked his shirt. She clung to him, her
voice breaking as she spilled it all. “I went to Ana’s—told her everything,
Javi. About Christopher, Mom, Dad… she threw me out. My own sister hates me.”
He guided her inside, shutting the door against the night,
and eased her onto the living room couch. “Start from the beginning,” he said,
sitting beside her, his hand resting on hers. “What happened in Dallas?”
Erica wiped her eyes, breath hitching. “I showed up with
these,” she said, lifting the diary and book, her voice trembling. “Told her
about 2036—when I went to Christopher, what he said about Ana maybe not being
Dad’s. She didn’t believe me—called it lies, said she’s David Torres’s
daughter, not some… some ‘bastard from a drunk musician.’ I begged her to read
them, Javi—she pushed me out, threatened to call the cops. ‘Get out before I
tell them a vagrant’s breaking in!’ My own sister…”
Javier’s jaw tightened, shock flickering in his eyes. He’d
known Mateo—Erica’s grandfather—a gruff but warm man who’d shared stories of
Elizabeth and David over the years at family gatherings. David and Elizabeth
had died in 2022 (on hold, original Ch. 21), long before he’d met Erica in her
late 20s, but he’d always shown them a quiet reverence, listening to Maria’s
tales of their love and loss. “Ana said that?” he asked, voice soft but
stunned. “She wouldn’t even look at the proof?”
“No,” Erica sobbed, her head dropping into her hands. “I
tried, Javi—I pounded on the door, yelling she needed to know what Dad did,
what Grandpa and Dad forced on Mom. She just screamed through it—‘Leave!’ I
drove back crying the whole way, thinking… she’s my sister, my little Ana. How
can she hate me for this?”
He pulled her close again, his arms a steady anchor. “She’s
scared, Cica. That’s a hell of a thing to hear—doesn’t mean she hates you.
She’s just… lost right now.” He brushed a tear from her cheek, his touch
gentle. “You’ve carried this alone too long. Tell me everything—Christopher,
the stories.”
Erica nodded, sniffling, and leaned into him. “You know the
legend—Sir Christopher, Mom’s knight. I never told Mateo and Sofia those tales
like Ana got them—just sang that tune Mom used to sing us. Holst, the second
movement—Song Without Words. Told ‘em it was Grandma Elizabeth’s favorite, that
she’d sing it from heaven. Didn’t want them tangled in it, not like this.”
Javier’s brow creased, recognition lighting his face. “That
song—soft, kinda haunting? You hum it to the kids at bedtime.”
“Yeah,” she said, a faint smile breaking through. “Mom sang
it to us—learned it from Christopher’s band days. I kept it quiet, but Ana…
she’s tied to him, Javi. The diary says it—April ‘12, Mom knew she was pregnant
with her, kept it from him (Ch. 19). And his book…” She tapped For Elizabeth
and Her Daughters. “He wrote it all—loving her, losing her. I needed Ana to
see.”
He squeezed her hand, his voice steady. “You’re a good
sister, Cica—braver than most. What’d she say about the books?”
“She wouldn’t touch ‘em,” Erica said, fresh tears welling.
“I told her to read ‘em herself—proof Mom and Christopher… that Ana’s his. She
shoved me out, Javi—my own sister, like I was trash.” Her voice cracked, and
she buried her face in his shoulder, crying harder. “I lost her—I lost my
little Ana.”
“Shh, you didn’t lose her,” Javier murmured, rocking her
gently. “She’s hurting, that’s all. Give her time—she’ll come around.” He
paused, eyeing the diary and book on the couch. “What’s in ‘em? You said
Christopher wrote it?”
Erica nodded, wiping her nose. “Everything—‘99, 2012, how he
loved Mom. The diary’s hers—secrets she kept from Dad, from Christopher. I read
‘em so many times, but I might’ve missed something. Read ‘em, Javi—tell me I’m
not crazy.”
“You’re not crazy,” he said firmly, kissing her forehead.
“I’ll read ‘em—every word. You rest now.” He pulled a throw blanket over her as
she curled up on the couch, her sobs easing into shaky breaths. She dozed off,
exhaustion claiming her, the tune of Song Without Words drifting faintly in her
mind.
Four hours later, Javier carried her to bed, her slight
frame limp in his arms. He’d read For Elizabeth and Her Daughters cover to
cover—Christopher’s tender recounting of 1999, the heartbreak of 2012 (Ch. 17),
the grocery store in 2016 (Ch. 18)—and was halfway through his second pass when
Erica stirred. The diary lay open beside him, its tight script revealing
Elizabeth’s 2012 secret (Ch. 19) and her pleas in 2018 (Ch. 21). He tucked
Erica in, her breathing soft, and returned to the living room, diving back into
the pages.
It was nearly three in the morning when she shuffled out,
eyes puffy, voice small. “Javi, come to bed. Please—hold me.”
He looked up, the book resting on his knee, and saw the plea
in her gaze. “Okay, Cica,” he said, setting it aside. “I’m here.” He followed
her to their room, the house quiet save for the hum of the air conditioner.
They slipped under the covers, and he pulled her close, her body trembling
against his. “You’re safe with me,” he whispered, kissing her gently.
“I need you,” she breathed, her hands finding his face,
pulling him into a deeper kiss. They made love—slow, tender, a balm to her
fraying heart—his strength steadying her as she clung to him. Afterward, they
fell asleep in each other’s arms, the diary and book silent on the couch, their
truths waiting for dawn.
Chapter 24: Ana’s Denial
Summer 2045
Ana Torres lay sprawled across her bed in her Dallas home,
the late July dusk filtering through the blinds, casting jagged shadows over
her tear-streaked face. At 32, her cloudy blue-green eyes—once soft with quiet
wonder—burned with shock and betrayal, her dark hair splayed across the pillow
like a shroud. Erica’s words from hours ago clawed at her mind, shattering the
world she’d built: Christopher hinted you might not be Dad’s… Mom got what she
wanted from him… it’s in the diary, the book. The books—her mother’s diary and
For Elizabeth and Her Daughters—were gone, far away with Erica in San Angelo,
taken when Ana had thrown her out (Ch. 20). Their absence gnawed at her, a void
where proof might have lain, leaving only Erica’s voice to haunt her.
Elizabeth’s betrayal hit hardest—her mother, the warm,
sunflower-braiding woman who’d sung her to sleep with Holst’s Song Without
Words (Ch. 1, For Her, For Erica), tangled with Christopher in 2012 (Ch. 19), a
secret kept from David, the father Ana adored. David’s cold manipulation stung
next—his sharp pride, his fierce loyalty to her and Erica (Ch. 21), twisted
into something uglier by Erica’s claims. And Mateo—Grandpa, gruff but
loving—meddling, hating Christopher, whose only crime was loving her mother. It
was too much. Her entire life—built on her father’s strength, her mother’s
tenderness—crumbled into lies.
“No,” she whispered to the empty room, voice hoarse. “It’s
not true. Erica’s wrong—she’s lying.” She cursed her sister under her breath,
fists clenching the sheets. “How dare she push this on me? Shatter everything
with those books I’ll never see?” Denial surged, a shield against the pain, but
the cracks in her world wouldn’t close, the books’ distance a taunting echo of
what she couldn’t confront.
The front door creaked open, and Ben Torres—34, lean and
steady, his dark hair tousled from a long day—stepped inside. “Ana?” he called,
his voice soft but edged with concern as he found her on the bed, sobbing into
the pillow. He dropped his bag, rushing to her side. “Hey, what’s wrong? Did I
do something?”
She looked up, tears streaming, and shook her head. “No,
Ben—it’s not you. It’s Erica.” Her voice broke, and she sat up, pulling him
close. “She came today—told me things… awful things.”
He sank beside her, wrapping an arm around her trembling
shoulders. “What’d she say? Tell me—everything.”
Ana took a shaky breath, her words spilling out, raw and
halting. “She showed up this afternoon, all frantic, banging on the door. Said
she’d been to see Christopher—Sir Christopher, from Mom’s stories—years ago,
back in 2036. Told me he hinted I might not be Dad’s daughter—that Mom… that
Mom slept with him in 2012, got pregnant with me, and never told anyone. She
said it’s all written down—Mom’s diary, some book he wrote called For Elizabeth
and Her Daughters. She had ‘em with her, Ben—wanted me to read ‘em, see for
myself.”
Ben’s eyes widened, shock creasing his brow.
“Wait—Christopher? The guy from those knight tales she told you as a kid? She’s
saying he’s your—”
“Yeah,” Ana cut in, voice trembling. “She said Mom went to
him in 2012—April, right after I was conceived. That Dad was off on that East
Coast trip with the firm, Smetherton, Stanley & Torres, and Mom drove three
hours north to Christopher’s place. Erica kept going on about how Mom wrote it
in her diary—knew she was pregnant with me, kept it secret from him, from Dad,
from everyone. Said it’s proof I’m his, not Dad’s—like I’m some… some mistake
from a fling.”
“Jesus,” Ben breathed, pulling her closer. “That’s a hell of
a thing to drop on you. What else?”
“She didn’t stop there,” Ana said, tears welling anew. “She
said Dad and Grandpa—Mateo—they trapped Mom. That they conspired way back in
2004, forced her into marrying Dad, into that life with the firm. Erica was
yelling about how Dad was so cold, so controlling—called him manipulative, said
he treated Mom like a prize he’d won, not a wife. And Grandpa—she said he hated
Christopher, did everything to keep him away, like Christopher’s only crime was
loving her. She kept saying I needed to know what they did, how they stole
Mom’s life.”
Ben shook his head, stunned. “Mateo? The old man who’d bring
us tamales at Christmas? And David—I mean, I never met him, but he was your
hero, right? Built that firm for you girls?”
“Exactly!” Ana’s voice rose, cracking with fury. “That’s
what I told her—Dad loved us, built everything for us. Smetherton, Stanley
& Torres—that was his pride, his legacy. And Mom—she was warm, Ben, sang to
us, braided sunflowers in our hair. Erica’s making it sound like some twisted
lie, like I’m not even his. I told her she’s crazy—I’m David Torres’s daughter,
not some bastard from a drunk musician. She wouldn’t shut up—kept pushing those
books at me, saying ‘Read ‘em yourself, it’s the truth.’”
“What’d you do?” Ben asked, his hand tightening on hers.
“I threw her out,” Ana said, voice dropping to a sob. “I
couldn’t take it—told her to get out, that I didn’t need her lies tearing up my
life. She wouldn’t leave—kept banging on the door, yelling through it, ‘You
need to know what Dad did, what Grandpa did!’ I screamed back, ‘Get out before
I call the cops and tell ‘em a vagrant’s breaking in!’ She finally left—took
those damn books with her. They’re gone now, far away in San Angelo, and I
can’t… I can’t stop hearing her voice, Ben. It hurts so much.”
He pulled her against his chest, his shirt soaking up her
tears. “I’m so sorry, Anabel. That’s brutal—I can’t even imagine what’s going
through your head. She’s your sister—why’d she hit you with this now?”
“I don’t know,” Ana wailed, clinging to him. “She said she
went to Christopher after he died—found the book, the diary, had to tell me.
Said it’s been eating her up. But why me? Why now? I threw her out, and she’s
still breaking me. Those books—I’ll never see ‘em, never know, and it’s killing
me anyway.”
Ben stroked her hair, his voice low and steady. “You don’t
have to believe it—not if it tears you up like this. She’s got the books, yeah,
but that doesn’t mean you’ve got to carry this. It’s her burden, not yours—let
her keep it far away.”
She nodded against him, her sobs easing. “She said Javier’s
her rock—holds her through it all. I didn’t see it ‘til now, but you… you’re
mine, Ben. My solid ground in this mess.” Her breath hitched, realization
softening the pain. “Everything’s upside down—I don’t know what’s real anymore,
with those books out there, out of reach.”
“You’re real,” he said, tilting her chin up to meet her
eyes. “Us—this—it’s real. Whatever’s in those books, wherever they are, it
doesn’t change who you are to me.” He brushed a tear from her cheek, his touch
gentle. “What do you need, Ana? Tell me.”
“Crying,” she said, voice small, “hold me—soothe me.
Please.” She leaned into him, her hands clutching his shirt.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered, kissing her forehead softly.
“I love you, Anabel.” His lips found hers, tender and slow, and she kissed him
back, desperation giving way to need. They sank into each other, hands roaming,
clothes slipping away as they made love—gentle, healing, a mirror to Erica and
Javier’s refuge (Ch. 23). Their breaths mingled, her tears drying against his
skin, and they fell asleep in each other’s arms, the absence of the books a
distant ache, Ana’s denial a fragile shield against the dawn.
Chapter 25: Shadows and Loyalty
Late Summer 2022
Christopher Williams stood in the dusty lot of the Fort
Stockton convenience store, the late August sun dipping low as Elizabeth’s
taillights faded south, three hours back to her cage (Ch. 22). At 44, his
flannel shirt hung rumpled, gray threading his shaggy brown hair, but his
cloudy blue eyes lingered on the road, heavy with the $200,000 he’d just handed
her—his tech firm nest egg, cashed out to set her free. Beside him, Raul-Manche
loomed—tall, lean, his dark sunglasses glinting, the straight razor at his
waistband a quiet threat. The air was thick with heat and unspoken stakes as
Raul broke the silence.
“So,” Raul said, voice low and amused, leaning against
Christopher’s truck, “that’s the famous Elizabeth, huh? You said you needed
help, amigo—I thought you meant moving some damn furniture, not smuggling a
woman out from under her husband.”
Christopher chuckled, a rough sound, rubbing the back of his
neck. “Yeah, well, it’s a bigger job than a couch. She’s leaving him—divorce is
coming. David’s sharp—Smetherton, Stanley & Torres, big lawyer—and her old
man Mateo’s got teeth. I need her safe, Raul.”
Raul smirked, adjusting his shades. “Protection gig, then?
You’re lucky I like you, Chris. When you called, I figured it was something
simple—lift a dresser, crack a beer. Now I’m playing bodyguard for your old
flame.” He paused, tilting his head. “What’s your wife think of this? Rachel,
right? She cool with you dropping two hundred grand on another woman?”
“She knows everything,” Christopher said, his tone
softening. “Rachel’s sharp too—helped me figure this out. Said if I was gonna
do it, make it count. She’s in my corner, man—always has been.”
Raul raised an eyebrow, a grin tugging at his lips. “Hell of
a woman. Most wives’d have your balls in a jar for this. You’re a lucky
bastard.” He straightened, his grin fading to a serious edge. “So, what’s the
play? This David—he gonna come swinging? And Mateo—cartel ties from way back,
yeah?”
Christopher nodded, his jaw tightening. “That’s why I called
you. Mateo’s meddled before—2004, him and David locked her in (Ch. 1). I need
you to make sure he doesn’t pull that shit again—call in the cartel, muscle her
back. Can you talk to him? Let him know I’m off-limits?”
Raul laughed, a sharp bark that cut the humid air. “Oh, I’m
heading south anyway—got a sit-down with the boss in Mexico. I’ll swing by
Mateo’s, have a little chat. Extend my ‘wishes’ to David too—cartel don’t
tolerate shenanigans against Christopher Williams, not on my watch. They try
anything, they’ll wish they hadn’t.”
“Thanks, man,” Christopher said, clapping Raul’s shoulder.
“I owe you.”
“You owe me a beer,” Raul shot back, grinning. “Maybe two.”
His tone softened, curiosity creeping in. “This Elizabeth—she’s something, huh?
I remember you yapping about her back in the day—‘99, that college girl with
the green eyes. Now I see her, I get it. Still got you hooked after what—ten
years since you last saw her?”
“More like four,” Christopher corrected, a faint smile
tugging at his lips. “2018—she called, needed help (Ch. 21). Before that, 2016,
Fort Stockton run-in (Ch. 18). But yeah, she’s… she’s Liz. Always will be.”
Raul shook his head, amused. “Four, ten—same difference.
You’re a hopeless case, amigo. She’s got you wrapped around her finger, and
you’re out here playing knight again. But you’re married, Chris—Rachel’s
waiting. Best thing you can do now is go home to her.”
“I know,” Christopher said, voice quiet but firm. “I’m done
here—gave her what she needs. Rest is up to her.”
Raul’s grin widened, but his eyes stayed sharp. “Good. I’ll
handle Mateo—tell the boss what’s up, just in case the old man tries calling in
favors. He won’t like hearing ‘no’ from us.” He paused, then leaned in, voice
dropping. “You think she’s worth all this? Elizabeth?”
Christopher exhaled, staring at the horizon. “Yeah. Always
was.” He hesitated, then added, “There’s more—Ana, her youngest. Dates don’t
line up right with David’s East Coast trip in ‘12 (Ch. 19). I think she’s
mine.”
Raul’s laugh erupted, loud and wild, doubling him over. “No
shit? You’re kidding me! David, that cowardly rat—stabbing his own brother in
the back, raising your kid like a snake? In Mexico, guys like him get hung from
the highway overpasses, guts swinging for the buzzards!” He clapped Christopher
on the back, still chuckling. “That’s rich, amigo—you’re a damn legend now.”
Christopher smirked, shaking his head. “Keep it quiet, huh?
Just a hunch—don’t need it getting messy.”
“Messy’s my specialty,” Raul said, winking. “But yeah, lips
sealed—‘til it’s time to twist the knife.” He jerked his head toward the truck.
“C’mon, let’s roll. I’ll drop you off—got a long drive south ahead.”
They climbed in, the engine rumbling to life, and continued
talking as the miles slipped by. Raul’s humor peppered the seriousness—jabs at
David’s “fancy lawyer ass,” quips about Christopher’s “bleeding heart”—but his
tone hardened when they circled back to Mateo. “Old man’s gonna shit bricks
when I show up,” he said, grinning. “Cartel don’t play favorites with snakes.”
Three hours later, they pulled up to Christopher’s
home—unnamed, a weathered refuge three hours north of Elizabeth’s. Raul cut the
engine, leaning back. “Give my regards to Rachel, huh? Tell her I’ll swing by
for that beer sometime.”
“Will do,” Christopher said, stepping out. “Stay safe,
Raul.”
“Always,” Raul replied, flashing a grin before peeling away,
southbound for Mateo and Mexico.
Inside, Rachel looked up from the kitchen, auburn hair
catching the light, a warm smile breaking her face. “Back already? How’d it
go?”
“Gave her the money,” Christopher said, dropping his keys on
the counter. “Raul’s handling the rest.”
She nodded, stirring a pot on the stove. “That Raul—he’s
charming, in a scary way. Serious-looking guy, though—I’d never want to piss
him off.”
“Yeah,” Christopher said, a faint smile tugging at his lips,
his voice carrying the weight of the day. He joined her, the quiet of home
settling over him, Raul’s laughter and Elizabeth’s shadow lingering in the back
of his mind.
Chapter 26: The Cartel’s Warning
Late Summer 2022
Raul-Manche pulled away from Christopher’s weathered home,
the truck’s engine growling as he turned south, a devilish grin curling his
lips. The three-hour drive from Fort Stockton had left him wired, Christopher’s
plea for Elizabeth’s safety (Ch. 25) now a mission he relished. At
40-something—his age a mystery even to himself—his tall, lean frame cut an
imposing shadow, sunglasses glinting in the fading light, the straight razor at
his waistband a silent promise. He rolled up to Mateo’s house—unnamed, a modest
sprawl three hours south of Christopher’s—dust kicking up as he parked.
Stepping out, he adjusted his faded black shirt and knocked hard on the door,
the sound echoing like a gunshot.
David Torres answered, 45, leaner and sharper from his
Smetherton, Stanley & Torres days, but his eyes widened in terror at the
sight of Raul. “You,” he stammered, voice cracking, his lawyer’s polish
dissolving.
Raul’s grin widened, dripping with sinister sarcasm. “Why,
hello there, Mr. Torres. I see you’re surprised to see me. What’s the
matter—cat got your tongue? Is Mr. Gonzalez here, or are you playing house all
by yourself?” His tone was a blade wrapped in velvet, cutting deep.
David swallowed hard, sweat beading on his brow. “Mateo’s
here,” he managed, stepping aside, his hands trembling as he let Raul in.
“Good,” Raul said, strolling past him with casual menace.
“Let’s visit for a moment, then.” He sauntered into the living room, dropping
into an armchair like he owned the place, legs crossed, radiating intimidation.
David called out, voice shaky, “Mateo! Someone’s here!” Mateo Gonzalez shuffled
in—60s, gruff and weathered, his protective shadow over Elizabeth (Ch. 1) now
tense with unease. The two men sat across from Raul on a stiff couch, Mateo’s
jaw tight, David’s face pale as death.
Mateo spoke first, voice sharp but unsteady. “What’s the
meaning of this? Why’s the cartel sending someone to my home?”
Raul leaned back, smirking, his sunglasses masking eyes that
saw everything. “Nice place you got here, Mateo. Real lovely—cozy, even. I’m
wondering, though—why hasn’t a gentleman like you offered me a cold beverage
yet? Hot day like this, a man could use a beer.”
David fumbled, words tripping over themselves. “I—I can get
you—”
Raul’s head snapped to him, his gaze piercing through the
shades. “Shut up, Mr. Torres. Men are talking. Don’t interrupt me again.” David
froze, a choked whimper escaping, his bladder twitching under the weight of
that stare.
Raul’s voice dropped, cold and deliberate. “If you soil
yourself in front of me, you’re gonna have a really bad day.” David clamped his
mouth shut, quiet as a mouse, his legs pressed tight.
Mateo tried again, voice rising. “What do you want, Raul?
Why—”
Raul cut him off, leaning forward, his casual air sharpening
to a razor’s edge. “I’m here representing the cartels—all the families, Mateo.
What I say carries their weight, so listen good. Do not fuck with Christopher
Williams. Any move against him is an act of aggression against us—severe
punishment follows, for both of you.” He turned to David, his grin vanishing,
voice icy. “Especially you, Mr. Torres. Any act against Christopher, Elizabeth,
or her girls—Erica, Ana—and you’ll get a visit from me. And if I come back,
I’ll bring a fire axe. You understand?”
Mateo’s face drained of color, sweat glistening as he
muttered, “Chris the Red.” The name hung heavy—he’d heard the rumors, a white
man enforcer in ‘99 (Ch. 10), a savage legend who’d hacked a rival cartel to
pieces with a fire axe. Nineteen bodies, heavily armed, found butchered in a
back alley trashcan, blood pooling red. “Chris the Red” was a chilling whisper
in cartel circles, and both Mateo and David knew it.
Raul’s grin returned, slow and wicked. “Yes, gentlemen.
Christopher—also known as ‘The Red’—close personal friend of mine. Real handy
with an axe, that one.”
Mateo muttered a prayer under his breath, fingers tracing
the sign of the cross, his eyes darting to Raul. “Madre de Dios…”
“Good idea, Mateo,” Raul said, nodding. “Pray to God I don’t
come back here. No shenanigans—none. You got that?” He leaned back, casual
again, as if discussing the weather.
Mateo nodded stiffly, a jerky motion, his voice barely
audible. “Yes.”
David stayed silent, his breath shallow, eyes locked on the
floor. Raul stood, stretching, his presence filling the room. “Well, gentlemen,
I’ve got a long drive ahead—south to the boss in Mexico. You two have a
pleasant day, but I must take my leave. Good afternoon, Mr. Gonzalez.” He
turned to David, his voice dropping to a cold, intimidating growl. “I remember
you, Mr. Torres—still think you should be ashamed of yourself. Good afternoon.”
He strode out, the door slamming shut behind him, taking the
air of dread and intimidation with him. The silence stretched, thick and
suffocating, until David’s breath hitched—a wet stain spread across his pants,
the terror finally breaking free now that Raul was gone. Mateo glared at him,
muttering, “Idiot,” but his own hands shook, the legend of “Chris the Red”
echoing in his skull.
Chapter 27: Reconciliation and Forgiveness of the Torres
Girls
Summer 2045
Erica Torres sat in her San Angelo living room, the late
July heat pressing against the windows, her jade-green eyes still puffy from
the tears shed after Ana’s rejection (Ch. 23). At 35, the weight of their
fractured bond—splintered by the diary and For Elizabeth and Her Daughters (Ch.
20)—gnawed at her. Javier slept beside her that morning, his steady presence
her rock, but Ana’s silence was a wound that wouldn’t heal. She grabbed her
phone, dialing her sister’s number for the third time that week. It rang out,
straight to voicemail again. Erica sighed, voice trembling as she left her
message.
“Ana, it’s me—Erica. Look, I know you’re mad, and I get it.
I’m sorry for how it went down in Dallas—I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’m driving
back to Mom and Dad’s grave today, up in that little college town where
Christopher lived. Seven hours from here. I’m gonna talk to his automated
assistant—you know, the one he recorded before he died (Ch. 13)? He put
everything in there, detailed responses, and I think… I think there might be
more he didn’t tell me in ‘36. Something about Mom, maybe you. Please, Ana—come
with me. We can unravel this together, figure out the truth. I need my sister.
Call me back, okay? I’m leaving soon.”
She hung up, tears pricking her eyes, and tossed the phone
onto the couch. Javier stirred in the bedroom, but she didn’t wait—grabbing the
diary, the book, and her keys, she headed out, the electric car humming to life
as she set off for the podunk college town three hours north of her parents’
home, where Pineview Cemetery held Elizabeth and David’s graves (Ch. 13, crash
on hold).
In Dallas, Ana Torres sat at her kitchen table, her cloudy
blue-green eyes staring at her phone as it buzzed with Erica’s voicemail. At
32, denial still armored her heart—Elizabeth’s betrayal, David’s manipulation,
Mateo’s meddling (Ch. 24)—but the ache of losing Erica gnawed at her too. She
let it go to voicemail, unwilling to face her sister’s voice. Ben walked in,
fresh from a shower, his dark hair damp, and caught her expression. “Erica
again?” he asked, voice soft.
“Yeah,” Ana muttered, pushing the phone away. “Won’t stop
calling.”
“Listen to it,” Ben said, sitting beside her, his steady
gaze meeting hers. “She’s reaching out, Anabel. Might be important.”
Ana sighed, reluctance heavy in her chest, but she tapped
the screen, Erica’s voice filling the quiet. Ben listened, his brow creasing as
the message played—graves, automated assistant, a plea for truth. When it
ended, he squeezed her hand. “You need to go, Ana. If that assistant knows
more—like she says, something special for you—you’ve gotta find out. Could be
the truth about all this mess Erica’s been on about.”
“I don’t want to,” Ana said, voice tight, pulling her hand
back. “She’s trying to drag me into her crazy theories again—Christopher, Mom,
Dad. I threw her out for a reason, Ben.”
“I know,” he said, leaning closer, his tone firm but gentle.
“But you’re hurting, and she’s hurting. What if there’s more to it? That
assistant—Christopher recorded it himself, right? If he’s got news, maybe it’s
not just Erica’s word anymore. You deserve to know, even if it’s hard. Go with
her—unravel it together, like she said.”
Ana stared at him, her jaw tight, then softened, his words
sinking in. “You think I should? After everything?”
“Yeah,” Ben said, a small smile tugging at his lips. “You’re
tough as hell, Torres girl—I’ve seen it. But you don’t have to do it alone.
She’s your sister, and this might fix things. I’ll come with you if you
want—keep you steady.”
She managed a faint grin, shaking her head. “No, I’ll go.
Torres girls are made of tougher stuff—you know that. Mom was the strongest
person I knew, Ben. She rode Felix, faced Dad’s coldness, kept going. I get my
strength from her—I’ll be okay.” She stood, resolve hardening. “If I need you,
I’ll call. Promise.”
He nodded, pride flickering in his eyes. “Deal. Tell Erica
you’re coming—don’t let her drive off without you.”
Ana grabbed her phone, texting Erica: “Heard your message.
I’m in—meet me at Pineview. Leaving now.” She packed a small bag—clothes,
water, a photo of her and Erica as kids with Elizabeth braiding sunflowers into
their hair (Ch. 20)—and kissed Ben goodbye. “Love you, Anabel,” he said,
squeezing her hand. “Drive safe.”
“Love you too,” she replied, her grin widening despite the
nerves. The car hummed to life, and she set off, the nearly seven-hour drive
from Dallas to the little podunk college town stretching ahead—a journey to
graves, truth, and maybe her sister. The road blurred past, her mother’s
strength a quiet pulse in her chest, pushing her toward reconciliation.
Chapter 28: The Defiance of Elizabeth Gonzalez
September 2022
Elizabeth Gonzalez Torres sat rigid in the passenger seat,
the hum of I-10 a dull roar beneath David’s sharp voice cutting through the
night. At 43, her jade-green eyes burned with defiance, her black hair whipping
in the wind from a cracked window; at 45, David’s cold fury sliced deeper than
ever, his lean frame taut with rage. They’d just left divorce arbitration—still
sharing their modest home three hours south of Christopher’s, a battleground of
silence and spite—his Smetherton, Stanley & Torres polish gleaming through
the proceedings. The $200,000 from Christopher (Ch. 22), stashed in her hidden
lockbox, was her ticket out, but tonight, the car was a trap speeding toward
doom.
“You betrayed me,” David snapped, his hands tight on the
wheel, headlights slicing the dark highway. “Years of fidelity, Liz—years I
built this life for us, for my girls. And you throw it away like garbage.”
“Your girls?” Elizabeth shot back, her voice rising, sharp
and unyielding. “You mean your prize. I’ve got Erica—Ana’s Christopher’s, not
yours. You’ve been blind, David, raising his daughter like a fool.”
His head whipped toward her, eyes blazing with shock and
hate, and he slapped her hard across the face, the crack echoing in the
confined space. “You lying, meddling whore!” he roared, the car swerving as
rage took him, tires squealing on asphalt.
Elizabeth’s hand flew up, pain igniting fury, and she
punched him square in the side of the head, her knuckles stinging. “Don’t you
dare touch me!” she snarled, adrenaline surging. He growled, lunging with both
hands for her throat, choking her as the wheel spun free, his grip a vice
fueled by years of control—Mateo’s 2004 conspiracy (Ch. 1), his Smetherton,
Stanley & Torres empire (Ch. 19), all unraveling in her defiance.
Headlights flared—an oncoming truck loomed—and the crash hit
like thunder, metal crumpling, glass shattering in a deafening roar. Elizabeth
was thrown from the car, her body slamming into the asphalt, pain blooming as
blood seeped beneath her, staining the highway red. David’s whimpers came from
the wreckage, pinned and broken, his breaths ragged, the steering column
piercing his chest.
Lying there, dying, Elizabeth smiled—a weak, defiant curve
through the haze of agony—and raised her middle finger toward him, trembling
but resolute. “Fuck you, David,” she rasped, voice fading, blood bubbling at
her lips. “Christopher was always the better man.” Her eyes fluttered shut, the
world dimming to black, her last breath a whisper of freedom.
David’s whimpers stilled, his head slumping, blood pooling
beneath him as the truck driver’s shouts faded into the night. They died at the
scene, the highway swallowing their end, a twisted wreck of metal and unspoken
truths—Mateo’s meddling (Ch. 26), Christopher’s love (Ch. 22), and Ana’s secret
(Ch. 19) sealed in their graves.
Summer 2045
In Summer 2045, Erica and Ana stood at Pineview Cemetery,
seven hours from Dallas, three from San Angelo, the air thick with July heat
and the weight of their parents’ resting place. The marble headstone gleamed
under the sun—Elizabeth Gonzalez Torres, 1979–2022; David Torres, 1977–2022—a
silent testament to that September night. Ana’s cloudy blue-green eyes drifted
to a small urn atop the tablet, its presence a quiet mystery, and next to it, a
freshly picked sunflower in a green glass vase, its golden petals vivid against
the stone.
“Mother always did like sunflowers,” Ana said softly,
reaching down to touch the bloom, her fingers brushing its soft edges. She
lifted it, turning to Erica, her voice tinged with curiosity and suspicion.
“Who brought this? Was it you, Cica?”
Erica shook her head, jade-green eyes tracing the flower.
“No—not me. The groundskeeper told me earlier. Christopher’s estate pays a
college kid to pick one every day, place it here. They funded the headstone
too—gave a big donation to keep the grounds maintained, even threw money at the
Range Animal Science building up the road to fix up the facility and pens. Been
doing it since he passed (Ch. 13).”
Ana’s brow furrowed, the sunflower trembling in her hand.
“What’s going on, Erica? How’d you get tangled up in all this? Christopher’s
estate—paying for this? It’s… it’s too much.”
Erica exhaled, setting her bag down—her mother’s diary and
For Elizabeth and Her Daughters tucked inside—and faced her sister, voice
steady but heavy. “It started nine years ago, Ana—2036. I found Mom’s diary,
the one from 2009 she wrote after fighting with Dad (Ch. 20). I drove up here,
to this little college town, to see Christopher. Needed answers—about her,
about him. He was old then, worn out, but he let me in. Told me about ‘99, how
he loved her, lost her to Dad and Grandpa’s schemes (Ch. 1). Then he dropped
it—said there was more, about you, but it wasn’t my truth to tell. Wanted you
protected ‘til you were ready. I promised him I’d keep quiet.”
Ana’s eyes widened, the sunflower slipping back into the
vase. “Me? He said that—about me?”
“Yeah,” Erica said, nodding. “Kept my word for years, Ana.
Held it in, even after I saw him again before he died (Ch. 13). But when he
passed, I went back—found that book he wrote, saw the assistant he’d set up.
Realized he never stopped loving her—never stopped caring about us. That’s why
I came to you in Dallas (Ch. 20). Couldn’t keep it from you anymore.”
Ana’s voice cracked, a mix of anger and grief spilling out.
“What do we do, Cica? You never should’ve told me—this mess, it’s… it’s
breaking everything. I didn’t want this.”
“I know,” Erica said, stepping closer, her hand resting on
Ana’s arm. “I’m sorry—I messed it up. But we’re here now, together. Let’s go
talk to the virtual assistant. Maybe there’s more to this story—something he
left for you, for us. We can figure it out, side by side.”
Ana hesitated, her gaze flickering between the sunflower and
Erica, then nodded, a reluctant resolve settling in. “Okay. Let’s go. I need to
know—for Mom, for me.”
They climbed into Erica’s electric car, the hum of the
engine filling the silence as she drove them from Pineview to the refurbished
home of Christopher Williams—a short trip through the podunk college town, its
weathered charm unchanged since his death. The house loomed ahead, restored by
his estate, a repository of secrets waiting to speak. Ana clutched the
sunflower she’d taken from the vase, its petals a tether to their mother’s
defiance, as Erica parked, both sisters bracing for the truth they’d unravel
together.
Chapter 29: Love Lost
September 2022
Christopher Williams stood in the backyard of a friend’s
house across the state, the September sun dipping low, casting long shadows
over the grass. At 44, his shaggy brown hair was streaked with gray, his
flannel shirt rumpled from a day of travel with Rachel, his wife. They’d been
visiting mutual friends—three hundred miles from home, a rare escape from the
tech firm grind he’d left behind (Ch. 22)—when his phone buzzed. He stepped
outside, sliding the glass door shut, and answered, his cloudy blue eyes narrowing
as the voice on the other end crackled through.
“Hey, Chris—it’s Tom,” the mutual friend said, voice heavy.
“Bad news, man. Elizabeth… and David… they’re gone. Car wreck on I-10, couple
nights ago. Arbitration fight got ugly—crashed into a truck. Didn’t make it.”
The words hit like a punch, stealing his breath. “What?”
Christopher rasped, his hand trembling on the phone. “No—that can’t… you sure?”
“Yeah,” Tom said, softer. “Heard it from a buddy in their
town. Sorry, Chris—she’s gone.”
Christopher hung up, the phone slipping from his grip to the
grass. His legs buckled, and he fell to his hands and knees, a choked sob
tearing from his throat. Rachel, watching through the sliding glass door, saw
the collapse—her husband, steady as stone, crumbling. She rushed out, the door
banging shut behind her, and dropped to his side, her auburn hair brushing his
shoulder as she gripped his arm. “Chris? Honey, what happened? What’s wrong?”
His eyes, full of hurt and tears, met hers, his voice
breaking on a single word. “Elizabeth.” He swallowed, chest heaving. “She’s
gone.”
Rachel’s breath caught, her own tears welling as she knelt
beside him, pulling him into her arms. “Oh, Chris,” she whispered, holding him
tight, her cheek pressed to his. She remembered her—the woman with two little
girls, Erica and Ana, in that Fort Stockton grocery store six years back (Ch.
18). “The one that got away,” they’d both said later, a shared ache in their
laughter. Now, her tears mixed with his, dripping onto the grass as she rocked
him gently. “I’m so sorry—I know what she meant to you.”
He clung to her, his anchor, and after a long moment, he
dried his tears with a shaky hand, pressing a kiss to her lips. “Love you,” he
murmured, holding her as if his life depended on it, her warmth pulling him
back from the edge.
Three weeks later, Christopher and Rachel stood at Pineview
Cemetery, a quiet stretch near the little college town he called home, its lawn
still flawless in those early days before time wore it down. The marble
headstone gleamed—Elizabeth Gonzalez Torres, 1979–2022; David Torres,
1977–2022—a stark marker of that night on I-10 (Ch. 28). Christopher carried
his guitar, the same one he’d strummed for her in ‘99 (Ch. 4, For Elizabeth,
For Me) and 2012 (Ch. 16), its wood worn but steady. Rachel stood beside him,
her hand in his, a silent pillar as he set a single sunflower by the stone—a
bloom he’d picked that morning, her favorite.
He tuned the strings, his fingers trembling, and began to
sing “Faded Love,” the old country tune he’d played for her once in a horse pen
under a Texas sky. His voice—beautiful, unwavering despite the years—cracked
with grief, eyes full of tears as he poured his heart into the notes. “As I
look at the letters that you wrote to me, it’s you that I am thinking of…” The
words faltered at times, sobs breaking through, but he pushed on, each chord a
farewell. “I remember the love that we once knew, now it’s faded like a dying
ember…”
Rachel squeezed his hand, tears streaking her face, her own
voice silent but her presence loud. He finished, the last note hanging in the
air, and sank to his knees, laying the guitar across the grave. Christopher’s
heartbreak spilled out in that final song, a song of love for his Elizabeth—his
Liz, the girl with jade-green eyes who’d danced in his life from ‘99 to their
stolen nights in 2012 (Ch. 16), now lost forever. “One last time, darlin’,” he
whispered, voice raw, tears soaking the stone as he traced her name with
trembling fingers. “Always loved you, always will.”
Chapter 30: The Legacy of Christopher and Elizabeth
Summer 2045
Erica and Ana Torres pulled up to Christopher Williams’s
renovated home, a sturdy relic in the little podunk college town, its weathered
charm now polished by his estate’s care. The late July sun dipped low, casting
a golden glow, when the outer lights flared green as Erica’s electric car
rolled to a stop. Ana, clutching the sunflower from their mother’s grave (Ch.
28), frowned, her cloudy blue-green eyes narrowing. “What’s going on, Cica?”
“I don’t know, Ana,” Erica replied, jade-green eyes wide
with surprise. “It didn’t do this last time I was here.” She’d visited years
ago—2036 (Ch. 20), then briefly after his death (Ch. 13)—but this was new.
The outer pad lit up, projecting an image of old
Christopher’s face—shaggy hair grayed, cloudy blue eyes sparkling with joy. His
voice crackled through, warm and teasing. “Well, you’ve brought your
sister—excellent! Anabel, I have so much to tell the both of you. Please, come
in—have a beer. Or, if you’d like, there’s tea; might have to mix it yourself,
though. Come in, make yourselves at home.”
The lights shifted back to pale amber, the door swinging
wide for the two Torres girls. They stepped inside, greeted by a woody, worn
cologne scent wafting through the air. Ana froze, her breath catching. “That’s…
that’s from riding with Mom,” she said, voice soft, memories of Felix and
sunflowers flooding back (Ch. 20). Erica nodded, recognizing it
too—Christopher’s cologne, the same from his ‘99 days (Ch. 4, For Elizabeth,
For Me) and 2012 (Ch. 16).
On the small kitchen table sat two legal briefcases, black
and unassuming. Ana sank onto the couch, still holding the sunflower, while
Erica grabbed two beers from the fridge, her hands steady despite the surreal
moment. She handed one to Ana and sat beside her just as a hologram flickered
to life in the recliner—Christopher, 60s, flannel shirt and all, grinning at
them.
“Well, you two Torres girls came,” he said, voice rich with
affection. “So Erica’s obviously told you about the book and your mother’s
diary, huh?”
“What do you have to tell us, old man?” Erica cut in,
impatient, her tone sharp—David’s brashness peeking through (Ch. 17).
“Oh, hush, Erica—always David’s daughter, brash and
impatient,” Christopher teased, chuckling. “First off, this home is your
legacy. Both of you have direct ties here—it’s yours now, to do with as you
please. I made my fortune in music technology, but most of the tech in this
house? That’s my dear wife, Rachel. Brilliant woman—passed in 2032, cancer.
Found the first tumor, and she was gone in months. Quick, brutal. If you wanna
learn more about me, her, our son, find the blue book on my shelf—Life with Rachel.
You’re free to read anything here, girls.”
Ana shifted, her beer untouched, eyes narrowing. “Your son?”
“Yeah,” Christopher said, nodding. “He’s come for his legacy
already—rich man now. If you reach out, respect his wishes, but Ana—he’s your
half-brother.”
“How’s that possible, old man?” Ana snapped, anger flaring,
tears pricking her eyes. “My mother never cheated on my father—they loved each
other!”
“Why, Anabel Maria Torres,” Christopher said, his hologram
tilting its head, voice firm but fond, “I know your mother taught you better
than to interrupt an old man.” He softened, seeing her tears. “Anabel, you’re
my daughter, plain as day—conceived in this house in 2012 (Ch. 19). Your mother
kept it from me. We’d had a falling out, I’m afraid—I wanted her to be mine,
but she feared David and Mateo would come after us, take you girls (Ch. 17).”
Ana’s tears spilled over, her voice shaking. “Lies?”
Christopher’s hologram turned to Erica, visibly annoyed.
“Girl, didn’t you give her the book to read for herself?”
“Well…” Erica started, shifting uncomfortably, beer halfway
to her lips.
“You two Torres girls are stubborn as mules—you get that
from Elizabeth,” he said, laughing dryly. “But I’ll admit, Anabel got a double
helping. Your mother was a stubborn woman who always got what she wanted, and I
was a stubborn man who refused to stop loving her.” He paused, his grin fading
to a wistful look. “Old man’s got more, Erica—since you asked. You’re both
independently wealthy now. Those two cases on the table—one for each of you.
Stock bearer bonds, partial control of the company me and my old roommate
Daniel built. Daniel owns the rest—he earned it, did most of the work. Rachel
streamlined it all—brilliant mind, only woman who could rival your mother.”
“What’s this company?” Erica asked, leaning forward.
“Music tech—biggest name out there,” Christopher said. “Read
the books—my answers are keyed to ‘em. Unless you’ve gone through For Elizabeth
and Her Daughters and Life with Rachel, you won’t get much more outta me.
Understand, girls? Well, tough…” The screen went black, his hologram vanishing
mid-grin.
Erica and Ana stared at each other, amazement mingling with
disbelief. Ana set her beer down, voice trembling. “You came here to talk to
him?”
“Yeah, Anabel,” Erica said, sipping her beer. “Years
ago—2036, about ten years before he died (Ch. 20). Then a few years back, he
left me a message—said the books existed, that we should both read ‘em. I
didn’t get here ‘til after he passed (Ch. 13). The assistant helped me find For
Elizabeth, sent me to tell you.”
“Do you believe him?” Ana asked, wiping her eyes, the
sunflower resting in her lap.
“I believe he loved our mother—and she loved him,” Erica
said, voice steady. “If you’re his daughter, you’ll have to decide that for
yourself. It’s in the diary, the book—he’s not lying about that.”
“Well,” Ana said reluctantly, a faint smile breaking through
her tears, “I guess I’ve got some reading to do.”
