Eduardo swung into the alley that led to the back of the unit. Parked. Set the brake.

After a day dealing with a never-ending list of maintenance items, plus the long drive home from Ivy Hill in the dark on icy roads with sleet pinging off the windshield, another taut confrontation with his brother-in-law held no appeal.

But if it had to be done, he’d do it. It was Thursday night, and Miguel’s deadline had arrived.

Psyching himself up for an argument, he locked the car and crossed to the back door.

The scene through the canted blinds on the kitchen window wasn’t encouraging.

Margarita was working at the stove, her movements quick and jerky. Like they always were if she was under stress.

An unopened six-pack of beer—the brand Miguel favored—was on the counter.

And three places were set at the dinner table.

Eduardo fisted his hands. Took a deep breath. Pushed through the door.

Margarita swung around as he entered, lines of distress scoring her face as she darted a quick glance toward the hall.

“He’s still here?” Eduardo joined her at the stove, keeping his volume low.

“Yes.” She pressed her hands against her stomach. “In his room.”

“You mean in our baby’s room. Did he say anything about leaving?”

“No. When he came in half an hour ago, he asked what we were having for dinner.”

Eduardo gritted his teeth. “Has he packed?”

“I don’t know.” Her irises began to shimmer. “There’s a lock on his door.”

“What?” His pulse vaulted into overdrive.

She nodded. “He must have put it on while we were both gone.”

Translation? Their unwelcome guest wasn’t planning to leave.

Heat surged over his cheeks. “He is not going to—”

“Buenas tardes, Eduardo.” Miguel ambled into the kitchen, the curve of his lips more sneer than smile. “Dinner smells good, chiquita.”

He started to pull out a chair, but Eduardo yanked it from his grasp.

His brother-in-law regarded him calmly, his pupils normal-sized and alert tonight.

Maybe he had stopped using.

Didn’t matter.

If he wasn’t using, the package he’d taken on Monday night in the alley meant he was dealing—and that was even worse in the eyes of the law.

“Why aren’t you gone yet?”

Miguel gave an indifferent shrug. “You said three days. That’s seventy-two hours. It isn’t nine o’clock yet.”

“Does that mean you’re leaving in two hours?” A vain hope, in view of the man’s attitude.

“You know”—Miguel sauntered over to the counter, fished a spoon out of a drawer, and dipped it into the pot of pozole on the stove—“I’ve gotten to like it here. And Margarita is an excellent cook.” He slid the spoon into his mouth. “Delicioso, chiquita.”