Chapters (110)
- Cover
- ALSO BY J. TODD SCOTT
- Dedication
- Epigraph
- PROLOGUE
- I
- II
- PART ONE
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- PART TWO
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- PART THREE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- FORTY-TWO
- FORTY-THREE
- FORTY-FOUR
- FORTY-FIVE
- FORTY-SIX
- FORTY-SEVEN
- FORTY-EIGHT
- FORTY-NINE
- FIFTY
- FIFTY-ONE
- FIFTY-TWO
- FIFTY-THREE
- FIFTY-FOUR
- FIFTY-FIVE
- FIFTY-SIX
- FIFTY-SEVEN
- FIFTY-EIGHT
- FIFTY-NINE
- SIXTY
- SIXTY-ONE
- PART FOUR
- SIXTY-TWO
- SIXTY-THREE
- SIXTY-FOUR
- SIXTY-FIVE
- SIXTY-SIX
- SIXTY-SEVEN
- SIXTY-EIGHT
- SIXTY-NINE
- SEVENTY
- SEVENTY-ONE
- SEVENTY-TWO
- SEVENTY-THREE
- SEVENTY-FOUR
- SEVENTY-FIVE
- SEVENTY-SIX
- SEVENTY-SEVEN
- SEVENTY-EIGHT
- SEVENTY-NINE
- EIGHTY
- EIGHTY-ONE
- EIGHTY-TWO
- EIGHTY-THREE
- EIGHTY-FOUR
- EPILOGUE
- I
- II
- III
- IV
- V
- VI
- VII
- AUTHOR’S NOTE
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- Excerpt from LOST RIVER
- LITTLE PARIS
- DILLON
- ABOUT THE AUTHOR
- What’s next onyour reading list?
They’d have to find a way to work that splinter out on their own.
But Amé still could, and Mel hoped she would.
She folded the small paper into an even smaller square and tucked it carefully inside the cigarette pack she’d been holding on to. Then she pressed the pack into Amé’s hand as she took Jack from her.
“Hold on to those cigarettes. I think you’re going to need one yourself.”
America looked at the pack, before slipping it into her back pocket. “He’s beautiful, your son.”
Mel smiled and gathered up her bag. It was time to go.
“Thank you. I think he’s going to grow up to look just like his daddy.”
FORTY-EIGHT
CHAYO & NEVA
The men had quietly slipped in behind them, moving up from the river as they had, and caught them two hours after they crossed over.
Chayo heard something, wheeling around in time to bring the ancient rifle up as if it were loaded. It was awkward in his hands, like it would fall apart if he shook it or gripped it too hard, but it held together, for now. And at least it kept his hands steady, as he aimed it at the two men who’d appeared out of the scrub.
The first was tall, all right angles. He looked like one of the espantapájaros Chayo had seen on the farms in Blanco—an ugly thing made of straw and wood and newspapers and bits and pieces of other old things.
But this man wasn’t made of newspaper, his bare arms covered in ink, tatuajes. Because of the sweat beaded on the man’s skin, reflecting the flattened sun, Chayo couldn’t tell exactly what the tatuajes were supposed to be. Most of them were scrawled in blue or black, giving him a sooty appearance, as if he were permanently dusted in ashes. He wore a sleeveless shirt that hung down far past his waist; his thinning hair was covered by a bandanna, and big sunglasses wrapped around his wasted skull.
There was a machete in his waistband.
The other was shorter, but just as thin. He had a Delfines del Carmen baseball cap, with its purple dolphin and green C, and sunglasses similar to his companion’s, but his were mirrored, so Chayo could see himself and Neva reflected. This man had a red bandanna twisted around his neck, and an open-necked shirt revealing two rosaries—one metal, one wood—dangling against his chest.
He had a gun, a large black one, aimed at Chayo.
Coyotes.
Or worse.
Neva took a half step behind Chayo, as Tatuaje stared at her from behind his darkened glasses, breathing hard.