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the Corps he’d sometimes caught her looking at him with that quiet yearning he didn’t want to encourage.
    The ironic thing was, now that she was all grown up, she’d looked at him with friendly recognition and nothing more. She’d been composed, a little remote. Why did that bother him? Hell, maybe his ego was smarting that she was ignoring him.
    With the dregs of the coffee in hand, he left the room and stepped outside into the parking lot for some privacy and fresh air. He texted Marisol again, the early evening air was warm and muggy against his skin.
    Really need to talk to you. When’s a good time?
    Not expecting a response any time soon, he started to slip the phone back into his pocket and was surprised when it buzzed. He whipped it back out, read the text.
    Busy at work. Will try to call you tonight if not too late.
    He responded immediately. Call me no matter when .
    She answered a moment later. Okay .
    Putting his phone away, he wasn’t convinced she’d actually follow through. But this was too important for him to let go. So if she didn’t call, he’d have to take matters into his own hands.
     
    ****
     
    The smell of the place still made him feel ill. Stale air, old people and an underlying scent of sickness that pervaded everything, combined with a heaviness to the air that came with being in what amounted to a warehouse that held people waiting to die. Souls and minds trapped in shells of bodies, forced to linger until their hearts finally gave out.
    Bautista entered the care home and took the elevator to the third floor. The nurses at the desk there smiled at him but he didn’t acknowledge them, just continued on to the last room in the corridor that looked out over the park across the street.
    Not that his abuela had ever been able to enjoy the view.
    He’d still insisted she have this room though, in the most state-of-the-art facility in southern Florida. It was the least he could do for her while she waited to die. And God knew he could afford it.
    They’d propped the head of her bed up a little, had the foot elevated slightly so her knees were bent. The IV and gastro tubes were taped to her face and arm, braced with towels and special pillows to keep her muscles from seizing completely. Her deep blue eyes were partially open, staring sightlessly across the room while soft Latin music played from the top-of-the-line sound system he’d bought for her a year ago.
    “Hi, abuelita ,” he murmured, bending to kiss her forehead, right where one of her surgical scars bisected the skin between her eyebrows.
    Her eyelids flickered and eyes moved slightly, settling in his direction before wandering again.
    Bautista set about adjusting her pillows and spent a few minutes manipulating her contractured limbs. She had only a few inches of movement at her elbows and wrists and they had to ensure she maintained that small range of motion. Her mattress was specially designed to reduce pressure points and help avoid bedsores.
    The physical therapists worked hard to keep what little motion she had left. He knew, because he checked the room often, without them knowing. Remotely, using the hidden surveillance cameras he’d installed on three sides of the room. He watched the staff carefully to ensure they were doing their jobs and not abusing his grandmother, and he paid them well for it. If anyone dared abuse her here, they’d suffer dearly.
    And he’d kill anyone who harmed her.
    Even after all these years he hated coming here, hated seeing her like this. For twenty-two years she’d lain like this, a vegetable. At least in the past few years he’d made enough money to ensure she had what comforts he could give.
    He lowered his weight into the leather easy chair beside her bed, forced himself to talk to her. About nothing, really. The weather. About the view of the park she would never see.
    He didn’t know if any of his words registered but he knew the pitch of his voice did. His grandmother still