Yolanda Ávila, a former LAPD cop-turned private investigator, blames herself for her mother's death in a road rage accident. It was her fault. The perpetrator was a suspect she'd pursued in an unrelated case, someone she should've caught by tracking down a license plate number. Any good detective would've done that. But she got cocky, thought she'd catch him by following clues from a stupid dream instead. The only salve against the guilt eating at her now is Yolanda's vow to reject that juju crap.

But when her godson Joey is kidnapped, his parents are suspected of murder, and a stalker threatens her wife Sydney to warn Yolanda off the case, she must deal with more than just the facts. She must confront the juju to overcome her guilt and deal with pent-up grief--or risk losing yet another loved one.

Excerpt

The morning of Mom’s funeral, I got a call from the Highway Patrol investigator. The man who’d run my mom off the road had been killed instantly when his car crashed into a freeway pylon. They’d had trouble identifying him because he’d used several aliases. Blood drained from my face at the mention of three names all too familiar to me- an identity thief I’d been tracking. I’d followed a stupid dream vision about his location, instead of the one real lead I had- a license plate that could have led me to him earlier.

“Stupid, stupid, STUPID!” I’d said over and over, pounding my forehead with my first after that call. Sydney had tried to convince me that I couldn’t have done anything to prevent the road-rage accident. That it was a freak coincidence. The guy had no way of knowing I had conducted Internet searches for him. But I wouldn’t listen. I was numb with guilt throughout the funeral and went through the motions of accepting condolences without feeling anything. Sydney told me later that she was afraid I wasn’t letting myself grieve. But how could I? I was too busy blaming myself. I vowed, then and there, to be done with this intuition and dream crap, and stick to the facts. If I’d done that, I would’ve traced the old license plate, found the guy, kept him off the road somehow, and saved my mother. She’d be alive. She was dead because I hadn’t done detective work the way they’d drilled into us at the Academy a lifetime ago.

Maybe it was a good thing I’d left the LAPD. Maybe I wasn’t cult out to be a copy after all. No. I was a good cop. Damned good. But that was before I’d been shot, long before all this juju stuff surfaced.

I fidgeted under the covers, antsy with guilt all over again. Sydney may get me to say otherwise, but I was never going to believer I wasn’t responsible for Mom’s death. I sat up and tried to slow my breathing, biting my lower lip.

“Syd,” I called out when she stepped out of the shower. “Why’d you do that? Why’d you make me remember? I am not going to repeat that mistake. It will never happen again.” I wiped a lingering tear.

“Babe.” She stepped back into the bedroom wrapped in a towel, her smooth, dark skin glistening with moisture. “I just think the juju can help with the guilt.”

I started to protest but flopped back onto my pillow when she continued.

“You know deep down that it wasn’t your fault, but you won’t acknowledge it.” She sat beside me on the bed, her own scar- “my Taliban tattoo,” she called it- highlighting her right biceps. “I just want you to be all of you, love.” She placed her hand over my heart, her kind, brown eyes locked on mine. “I know I can’t tell you how to grieve, but acknowledging anything- even this psychic stuff- has gotta be better than that unjustified guilt. It’s been almost a year.”

I knew she was trying to help, but the psychic thing was a step too far.

“Please. I am not psychic. And even if I had some. . . what do you and Jesse call it? Psychic intuition? It could never be reliable. It’s just a distraction.” I sat up again and hugged her. “No, love, don’t worry- this juju stuff’s not for me. Besides, it would never hold up in court. I’d be laughed off the witness stand. Nah . . . If Mom’s death taught me anything, it’s that we shouldn’t let the juju get in the way. And it won’t. I’ll call Carmen now. You’ll see. Joey’s fine.”

I Dialed Carmen on speaker and heard road noise when she answered.

“Hey, mujer. Off to work already?” I tried to sound unconcerned, calling her “woman,” one of the terms we used for each other.

“Buenos dias, comadre. Have a deposition downtown. Gotta get in early and kick some butt. My client waited until last night to tell me about another witness. Can you believer it? Chingado. What’s up?”

“Um, just checking in on Joey’s party tomorrow.” The little white lie couldn’t hurt. “What time should we be there? What can we bring?”

“Ah, you’ve turned into your mother, Yolanda.” I felt her smile through the phone. “She would never arrive to a party empty-handed.”

“No Avila would. What can I say?”

“Well, now that you mention it, how about your potato salad? Or Sydney’s awesome mac and cheese? Either would be fine. Say one o’clock? Joey’ll be getting hyper before the party and you and Sydney are so good with him.”

“Carbs and entertainment for a six-year-old. You got it. Good luck with the depo.”

“Gracias, mujer.”

We hung up, and I raised my eyebrows at Sydney, feeling justified. She gave a curt nod.

“You’ll still be careful today, right?” she said, standing up.

“Absolutely!” I jumped out of bed, pretending to feel much better about the rest of my day. I knew it would take most of it to shake off the resurfaced guilt. I’d done it before. All it took was concentrating on my work, keeping busy. The thought made me feel a little better-perhaps prematurely.

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About the Author

Verónica Gutiérrez is a former community organizer, civil rights attorney, municipal employee, non-profit leader, and corporate executive. She draws from years of experience in those worlds for her writing. Verónica was born and raised in Boyle Heights, the Los Angeles neighborhood that her protagonist, Yolanda Avila, P.I., calls home. Verónica and her wife Laura split their time between Los Angeles and San Francisco. Both are home bar enthusiasts and avid travelers. They host cocktail-lesson-themed fundraisers―called Mixology on a Mission―to help Los Angeles non-profits grow their donor base. Verónica published My Little Black Cocktail Book, a journal to organize her research and help others do the same. Some of the recipes she collects make it into her writing.

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https://veronicagutierrez.com/