Page 63 of The Deadly Candies

Javier tilted his chin toward the left. “Over there.”

José turned—and froze.

Debbie stood off to the side, small and uncertain. Her purse was clutched tight to her body as she comfortably waited under the weight of passing glances.

The men moving crates and rolling barrels noticed her, their eyes fixed her way with idle curiosity. A young Black woman standing alone on the docks wasn’t something you saw every day, and José could see the way she shrunk under their stares, her gaze darting nervously between them.

Something was wrong.

“Debbie?” José murmured, his brows knitted in concern. Without hesitation, he ran to her, weaving past stacks of crates and workers barking orders.

Before he could say a word, she threw her arms around him.

José stumbled back from the force of her embrace, but when he felt her shaking, he knew—she was crying.

Several workers slowed their movements to stare. A few of the older ones muttered, but José didn’t give a damn about them right now.

“Debbie, cálmate, cálmate,” he said on the verge of tears. He wrapped an arm around her and gently pulled her aside, away from the heavy foot traffic of the docks. They stopped near a wooden post where the breeze from the East River offered little relief from the heat.

José tilted her chin up, his dark eyes scanning her face. “¿Qué pasó?What happened? Talk to me. Tell me!”

Debbie’s voice seemed clogged in her throat. Then it escaped. Small and barely clear, it carried over the sound of the harbor. She whispered, “I’m pregnant.”

José stilled.

A hard gust of wind blew in from the water, kicking up the scent of salt and diesel, but José couldn’t move—couldn’t even breathe.

Debbie lowered her gaze, staring at the dusty ground. “I ain’t had my period in two months,” she confessed.

His chest tightened. “Are you sure?” He swallowed hard. “From who?Chester?”

Debbie flinched.

“Did you tell him? You having sex with thatcabrón?”

Her lips pressed into a line, and no matter how many times he tried to lift her chin, she wouldn’t look at him.

“I’ll kill Chester for this,” José said. He hated the way the boys prowled good girls and left them with problems they were too young to solve. His hands curled into tight fists at his sides.

Debbie shook her head rapidly. “It ain’t Chester,” she whispered. “I don’t talk to him no more.”

José blinked, his confusion deepening. “Then…who?”

Debbie inhaled sharply; her fingers twisted the strap of her purse.

“Matteo,” she said.

The name hit José like a hammer to the gut. José took a full step back, his breath catching in his throat. The distant shouts of dockworkers, the lapping of waves against the piers, the clatter of crates being unloaded—all of it faded.

His stomach churned.

Debbie stood there, her hands clasped in front of her, her body small and trembling.

“Did he rape you?” José’s voice was low, dangerously so.

Debbie’s head snapped up; her eyes wide with shock. “No!” she blurted. “He’s…he’s my boyfriend.”

“¡Carajo!” José shouted, startling a few nearby workers. His chest heaved with anger. Debbie’s shoulders shook as she wept, silent and ashamed.

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