But I haven’t decided whether I’ll return. I’m not sure I want to go back to a world so full of darkness. I would be content to live my days alone with Nick, listening to him read his words to me.
This isn’t a realistic prospect, of course. Merely a dream. I know that when I walk out of here I’ll have to find something to do with myself. Something to help me push away the pain. To help me move forward.
There is, however, in the back of my mind, one small concern. It’s probably nothing, but I’ve lived with it every day-a mild but constant bit of paranoia that just doesn’t seem to want to leave me alone. And what it stems from is this:
When the Mexican police found the crumpled Jaguar on the side of the road, Rafael was not inside. All that was left was a bit of blood on the seat.
And sometimes, late at night, I wake up in the darkness of my room and feel as if someone has been watching me.
Watching and waiting.
So a few days ago, I asked Nick to bring me one of the pistols Ortiz gave him.
And I keep it under my pillow.
Just in case.