Things We Can't Say

8: your mom sort of reminds me of this serial killer I know.

The address is far closer than I was expecting. In fact, it's far more familiar than I was expecting: a quaint, orange stucco building, white fence crawling with vines and small yellow flowers, a rusted garden gnome holding a platter of menus out by the door.

I recognize it because it's the same cafe where I met Alonso this morning.

I swallow, rubbing at the silver bar looped around my throat. Jamie, his eyes dim from beneath the brim of his baseball hat, glances at me with concern. "Vy? Is everything okay?"

"What?" I clear my throat, moving to pull the door open, flinching as the bell dings above my head. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm okay."

Alonso, I think as we step inside, just what are you planning?

The ambiance is a hushed, subdued version of what it was earlier, none of the hectic hissing of oil or the ubiquitous, pointless chatter that characterizes the morning rush. The lights are a low, dull amber, like the light of a candle. Stale coffee and garlic tickle my nostrils.

As soon as the door shuts behind Jamie and me, the host's eyes spring to attention like an animal on the prowl. He watches us with caution as I brush the podium, telling him, "We're here to see Luciano."

The host nods his head, silently gesturing for us to follow him.

So we do, leaving behind the patio where I effectively signed away our freedom just a few hours ago and disappearing further into the cafe. We weave between an array of rustic oak tables and wire chairs, past the bright chalk art map of Spain by the bathrooms, past the door marked Kitchen—which I have to drag Jamie past. The host brings us to a door that for all intents and purposes should lead to an alley or a trashcan; it just has that back door sort of look to it, an abused slab of metal with chipping paint and a dirty, rectangular window.

Then the host pushes the door in, however, and it's not an alley or a trashcan at all.

In fact, it's the very opposite. It's a lounge: a whirlwind of reds and browns and golds, the colors muted, however, by the somber yellow light emanating from the floor lamps. Arabic tapestries adorn every inch of the wall, a sofa and three chairs slouching atop the antique rug in the center of the room like exhausted people. On the sofa, there actually is a person, though he looks quite awake.

He rises from his seat as soon as we enter—and this is the first thing I notice about him: his height. It's not unusual for people to be taller than me; the tall genes have never exactly run in the Donahue bloodline, anyway. But this guy is towering, his body lithe and graceful in a way that's simultaneously enamoring and unsettling. The plunge of his black suit jacket, beneath which he doesn't look to be wearing anything else, isn't helping, either.

He smiles, his teeth a shock of white against the dark brown of his skin. "Glad to see you got in okay," he says, then waves a hand at the host, who vanishes out into the hall again—not without slamming the door shut behind him so forcefully that I jump in my shoes. "You didn't get lost, did you? Foreign city, and all. I was worried."

"No," I say, still lingering awkwardly by the door. "It was easy to find. A little unexpected, but easy to find."

"Unexpected?"

"Well, it's...a cafe. No offense, but over the phone you sounded a little too shady to work at a cafe."

"Oh, I don't work here. I own the place, if that makes a difference."

Both Jamie and I go silent at that. It does make a difference.

The man seems pleased at our reaction. He laughs, a gentle, breathy laugh, and runs a hand through his dreads, which hang like neat, clipped coils just past his brows. "Maybe I should actually introduce myself," he says, extending his hand. A small leather watch, the band fraying at the seams, straddles his wrist. "I'm Luciano Medina. Nice to meet you...?"