DIABLO
I imagine April’s smiling face near St. Peter’s or down by the Spanish Fountain, throwing a coin over her shoulder like the tourists do. Only she wouldn’t do it to come back, because she’d never want to leave. We’d live there together, and it would be perfect.
“Stay on the line,” I tell her as I speed through the traffic. “Keep talking to me.”
Her voice trembles. “I’m scared, Diablo. I’m really scared.”
“Is there anything in there you could use as a weapon?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Look around. A stapler, a mug, anything.”
“There’s Joe’s coffee mug in here.”
“Good. Break it.”
“What?”
“Break it, now.”
I hear a sharp crash through the phone. “I did it. Now what?”
“Find the sharpest edge and keep it between your fingers. Be ready to jab. Is there a pen?”
“Yes, there’s a p
