When Lies Unfold

Chapter 16

With my handsplanted on the edge of the vanity, I peer at my reflection in the enormous mirror mounted on the wall.

Strands of hair have fallen loose around my face, likely from wrestling with that bastard before he managed to slice the hell out of himself.

Until now, I’ve been operating almost robotically. On rote memory, of sorts. But now that I’ve scrubbed myself as clean as possible, what just happened edges its way back into my mind.

The scene of Andro pointing that gun at me flashes before my eyes. I knew when I witnessed the mixture of fear—fear because I’m a loose end, just as Santiago said—and hatred etched on his face that he planned to pull that trigger.

I’m not sure if his hatred is due to me being a female or whether his DNA is engrained with hatred.

All I knew for certain was that he planned to kill me.

Vivid images flit through my mind, replaying how I fought him off. Of the knife sinking into his flesh, of the relief that followed, only to have guilt rapidly chase at its heels.

What kind of person does it make me that I felt relief that he was the one with the knife wound?

Because it was either you or him.

Straightening, I lift my hands, palms facing up as I stare down at them. I’ve successfully done what was needed—and with my non-dominant hand, no less. But it wasn’t easy.

The entire time, my left hand twitched with the constant longing to join in.

Shifting my focus from one of the most painful chapters of my past, I tug out my hair tie. I gather my hair in place and quickly resecure my ponytail. I wish I had a spare shirt to cover myself, but I don’t, so I’ll have to make do with what I’m wearing.

My sports bra used to be gray, but now it’s so bloodstained, it appears more of a reddish-purple shade. My dark blue leggings venture closer to purple in certain spots where Andro’s blood soaked in.

As I glance down at myself, a weak, humorless laugh attempts to burst free. Half-dressed. Bloodstained clothes. Rubber boots. I’m a fucking mess. What I want the most right now is to go home, shower, and decompress.

But I can’t.

Santiago brought me here for some reason. If I’ve come to know anything about the man, there’s no way he’ll let me leave without us having the talk we never got to start.

Aside from that, now I wonder if I’ll get to leave at all. I just fought off his nephew and am the reason the asshole practically filleted himself, so there are bound to be repercussions.

Dragging in a deep breath, I straighten my shoulders and open the bathroom door, anticipating finding one of Santiago’s men lurking nearby. Instead, I find myself going rigid at the person waiting for me.

“Uh…hello.” My greeting comes out hesitant, because out of everything I would’ve expected to encounter in Santiago Hernández’s compound, it wasn’t the presence of a small child.

A little girl who can’t be more than five or six years old stares up at me with wide, brown eyes. A smear of what looks like chocolate decorates her right cheek.

Hair the color of midnight falls messily around her face and shoulders in tight ringlet curls. Barefoot and dressed in pink shorts, she wears a purple shirt with a unicorn on the front.

She scans me in an almost methodical manner before casually asking, “Did you have to kill somebody?”

“No. I had to help someone who was hurt.” This poor child’s nonchalance is horrifying. “Killing people’s bad.”

She blinks. “Unless they deserve it ’cause they did really bad things.”

My mouth parts because holy shit. That’s decidedly not the response I was expecting from her.

“Did that person”—she gestures to the blood staining my clothing—“die?”

“No.”

“Is that a bad person’s blood?”

I hesitate, and she suggests in an unsettlingly calm way, “Was it Andro? ’Cause Daddy’s been sayin’ Andro’s got shit for brains.”

Before I can respond, she wrinkles her cute little nose and continues with, “Andro’s a jerk. He makes fun of me ’cause I don’t wanna talk.” With a barely there pause for a breath, she rushes on with, “Are you a friend of my dad’s?”

OhdearGod. Please tell me her father isn’t who I think it is… “Who’s your dad?”

Pride infused in her answer, she lifts her chin proudly and declares, “Santiago Hernández.”

Ohhhh fuck. I’m rendered speechless, but thankfully, she doesn’t register my lack of response. Of course, Santiago’s kid is blasé about killing people. I’m not the least bit surprised, but?—

Wait. Is Santiago married? Maybe he got a woman pregnant. Yes, that’s more likely. Men like him don’t tend to be monogamous unless it comes to their weapon of choice.

“So, is it”—she surveys my bloodstained clothes once again—“a bad person’s blood?”

I clear my throat before bending my knees and bringing myself to her eye level. “Let’s just say that someone made a bad mistake today and that’s why his blood is on me.”

“My mom did lots of bad things.” She holds up a hand and starts ticking off her fingers. “She did drugs, did gross things with smelly guys, she almost let some of ’em touch me in no-no places, and then she died ’cause she did too many drugs.”

“That sounds…” It takes a concentrated effort to keep the horror from showing on my face. “Terrible.”

She drops her hands at her sides and shrugs as if she’s unbothered by it. “I’m better off without ’er.” A smile transforms her face as she tells me proudly, “’Cause of my daddy.”

I muster a weak smile, because I wholly disagree. “Wow.” That’s all I can say.

With an earnest expression in place, she reaches for my left hand. “Cool tattoos! I love butterflies. My name’s Alma. Wanna see my room?” She tugs me farther into the hallway.

Before I can form a response, a woman comes racing toward us. Dressed like the other staff in black slacks and a plain white polo shirt, the woman appears harried, her features creased with worry.

“Alma! I’ve been looking all over for you!” Stray hairs have come loose from the woman’s neat bun as she hisses at the child. “You’re not supposed to be over here!”

The little girl doesn’t respond to the woman but maintains a death grip on my hand, so I attempt to explain. “I’m sorry, but I just found her?—”

“Alma.” All three of us freeze in place at the sound of the familiar masculine voice behind me. “I have business to discuss with Miss Arias.”

Alma sags a moment before we turn to face him. Then the small girl gives him an innocent beseeching look.

“Nice try.” He squints at her. “Not gonna work.”

She tips her head to the side, jutting out her bottom lip, and tugs on my hand.

Expression ripe with suspicion, he cuts me a brief glance. “How’d you meet Alma?”

“She was waiting outside the bathroom when I opened the door.” I glance at the little girl. “Can you please tell your father that you were standing”—I point to the exact area where I discovered her—“right here when I came out of the bathroom?”

She blinks up at me, remaining silent. Great. Just fucking great.

“She doesn’t speak.”

It takes a moment for Santiago’s words to sink in. I frown and face him. “What?”

A muscle in his cheek flexes. “I said, she doesn’t speak.”

“But she…” My attention veers to Alma, who peers up at me innocently, and my words die on my tongue.

“She what?” A steely challenge coats his tone.

God, this whole family is supremely fucked up. “Never mind.”

Alma grunts and pulls on my hand again, attempting to lead me down the hall.

“Where do you think you’re goin’, young lady?” Santiago’s stern tone doesn’t do much to deter the girl. She keeps pulling me, and damn, she’s strong for such a little thing.

His eyes narrow to slits. “You want her to see your room?”

At her excited nod, Santiago appears to wage an internal war, his hesitation visible. His gaze scores over me as if he’s searching for an indication I’ve put this little girl up to this.

Finally, he scrubs a hand down his face. “Fine. Do it now, but”—he flashes her a warning look—“no more than five minutes.” He peers past us at the other woman. “I expect you to keep better tabs on her.”

“Yes, sir,” comes the woman’s rapid reply.

Now that she’s been granted Santiago’s permission, Alma nearly jerks my arm out of its socket, dragging me farther down the hall.

She leads me to where it finally intersects with another long hallway, rushes to the right, and stops at the first door on the left.

Hovering at the doorway, she points at my boots. I glance down at them. “You need me to take them off?”

She nods.

“Okay, then.” I slide them off, leaving me in my socked feet. It’s probably the only part of me that’s not splattered in blood.

When she leads me inside her room, the other woman lingers in the doorway with an odd expression pasted on her face. If I didn’t know any better, I would think it was shock. Regardless, I have no doubt she’ll report everything said and done back to Santiago.

Alma lets go of my hand and marches over to the door before slamming it closed in the woman’s face. I blink in surprise, but the little girl seems unbothered when she reaches my side once again.

Leading me around the pristine room, she proudly points everything out. Small and raspy, her voice is muted as she offers descriptions.

“That’s my bed. It’s a princess bed. Isn’t it beautiful? And that’s my favorite unicorn blanket…

“That’s where I put all my clothes that need to be folded. ’Cept I hate foldin’ clothes, so I put some of ’em on hangers.

“That’s my special carpet with the big butterfly in the center. See? My name’s on it, too.

“Look at the colors of my room! It matches your butterflies’ colors. Blue morphos are my favorite, too!”

I watch her closely, wondering what Santiago meant when he said she doesn’t speak. Because, clearly, she does.

“Look at my dollhouse. Isn’t it amazin’? Daddy said I should have only the best since I never had any dolls or a dollhouse.”

“Really?” I can’t hide the doubt in my tone, but thankfully, she doesn’t pick up on it. I can’t imagine Santiago doing much of anything kind or sweet for anyone, let alone a small child.

When she leads me to a shelf displaying some framed photos, I lean in for a closer look. In one, she poses beside Santiago.

“That’s from my birthday.” She scratches the side of her cheek, removing part of the chocolate stain. “It was the best birthday of my life.” When she turns toward me, her smile radiates palpable enthusiasm. “When’s your birthday?”

“In June.” Once the words spill out, I wish I could take them back. Anxiety and self-directed fury coil tightly in my stomach, and I rush to change the subject.

When I notice a large crate filled with defiled teddy bears, I slide her a questioning glance. “What’s all this?” A few bears have their heads ripped off and some had their stuffing removed while the majority are missing eyes and noses altogether.

A sour expression washes over her adorable face. “Those are the stupid teddy bears Keyna gives me.” She sticks out her tongue at the crate. “I hate ’em ’cause I hate her. She only gives ’em to me ’cause she likes my daddy.”

Keyna. I cycle the name through my mind until it dawns on me. Keyna was mentioned in the conversation between Nando and Santiago at my house the other day. Evidently, she’s no stranger to spreading her legs for them.

A fiery surge of something foreign licks through my veins, and if I didn’t know better, I’d say it was jealousy. But that’s ridiculous, because I can’t stand Santiago.

It’s more likely to be a sensation of utter disgust that she’s trying to use this sweet little girl to get closer to Santiago.

When the bedroom door swings open to reveal the man himself, it spawns a dense, dark cloud over us.

That cloud turns more severe with his commanding voice. “Time’s up, Miss Arias.”

Alma scowls in protest, but all he says is, “Alma.” His expression speaks volumes, those eyes filled with warning, and the poor girl’s shoulders sag with disappointment.

Compelled to smooth over the letdown she’s experiencing, I bend my knees to meet her gaze. “Thank you for showing me your room. You were right.” I extend my left arm. “My butterflies’ colors match your room perfectly.”

Her entire face brightens a moment before she throws her arms around me, almost sending me off-balance as she hugs me tightly.

I slide a cautious glance at Santiago, who remains in the doorway as I return the girl’s hug. My eyes inadvertently fall closed, and an old yearning attempts to eke past my locked defenses.

Once upon a time, I imagined having a family of my own. Of having a daughter or son.

But that dream was assassinated with all the others I once had.

Alma’s whisper in my ear is barely audible, and I strain to hear her. “Come back again, and we can play, okay?”

A tiny knot forms in my throat, and all I can offer is a hoarse, “Okay.”

How is it possible that this little girl has lived through such a traumatic time and still came out so loving and sweet?

“Miss Arias.” Santiago beckons me once again, and I drop my arms from Alma and straighten.

Alma eases back, her hands at her sides. A tiny crease forms between her brows as she studies me before she runs over to one of the shelves she has with little butterfly figurines on display. Rushing back to me, she thrusts a blue one into my hand and curls my fingers over it.

My protest is immediate. “Oh, no. I can’t take this. It’s yours.”

With a furtive glance at the two adults at the door, she points at the butterfly in my hand and then to my chest as if to say, It’s yours now.

The stubborn finality in her eyes has me offering a sincere thank you before bending my knees to reach beneath my right sock. I unclasp the small anklet and hold it up between us.

“I’d like you to have this. It has tiny blue morphos on it, too. Do you see it?”

Expression gleaming with wonder at the miniature charms on the chain, she nods.

“It should fit you perfectly if we double it.”

She extends her right wrist to me, and I carefully loop it around twice before securing the clasp. She stares down at it as if I’ve given her the greatest gift in the world instead of a little bracelet.

I’m caught off guard when she leans in and plants a kiss on my cheek. Then she runs off to the far end of her room where her enormous dollhouse sits.

The nanny enters but doesn’t approach Alma. Instead, she tidies up a few books on the shelf.

“Now, Miss Arias,” Santiago commands, his tone frostier than ever. “Follow me.”

I avoid his gaze and straighten, not caring to witness his look of disapproval. It’s not like I did anything wrong. I didn’t seek out the girl and certainly didn’t try to manipulate her in any way.

Once I draw near the threshold, he moves back and gestures for me to step into the hallway. I grab my boots and follow him in my socked feet. Our short walk is wordless as he leads me to his office and he closes the door this time, leaving us ensconced in silence.

Carefully placing my boots at the foot of the chair, I lower myself into it while he takes the large leather one behind his desk. The leather creaks when he shifts forward to rest his elbows on the expansive desk.

Steepling his fingers, he surveys me critically. “You have any experience with children?”

His random question makes me frown in confusion. “I’m a cleaner, so, no. Definitely not.”

His eyes rake over my features as though he’s searching for any shred of dishonesty. Reaching for the computer keyboard off to one side of a flat-screen monitor, his fingers fly over the keys before he turns the monitor my way.

Another larger flat-screen monitor is mounted along the wall closest to his desk, depicting video surveillance in and around this entire place.

My confusion grows as I observe what appears to be live video footage from his daughter’s bedroom. The nanny attempts to engage Alma in both play and conversation, but the girl remains silent, not responding to the woman.

I cast a cautious glance his way. “I’m not sure what you’re trying to show me.”

A deep, cavernous crease forms between his brows. He leans back in his seat, his attention resting solely on me. “I’m showin’ you what usually happens with my daughter.”

He shoves up from his chair and folds his arms across his chest. “She hasn’t spoken to anybody for two years.”

“What?” Stunned, I whip my head around, gaping at the live feed. Disbelief courses through me that the little girl who chatted with me—or at me—nonstop is the same one he’s describing.

“You heard me, Miss Arias.” Features reeking of suspicion, his tone is arctic as he splays his hands on his desk and leans forward. “I wanna know exactly what you did and said to her.”

My anger crests, and I dart up from my chair, my voice rising incrementally. “I didn’t do a damn thing but open that bathroom door and find your daughter waiting there!”

I slam my palms down on his desk and lean toward him, mimicking his pose. “If you’re so upset that she spoke to me, maybe you should hire someone who will not only keep up with her better, but also have some sort of connection with her!”

My words reverberate between us as our glares hold. With eerie languidness, he leans in and brings our faces even closer. The air thickens with an odd tension and heat, and I fight against the unsettling urge to move closer.

“That sounds like an interestin’ proposition.”

I tip my head at his confusing response. “What’re you talking about? I didn’t propose anything.”

“Close enough.” His granite-hard expression belies the calm smoothness of his tone. “I need somebody who can connect with my daughter, and for some unknown fuckin’ reason, she took to you.”

I ease back, unwilling to break eye contact because he’s watching me similar to how a hungry lion might regard a lone gazelle.

Adopting a bright smile, I announce cheerily, “I already have a job, but I appreciate the offer.”

His jaw goes tight. Evidently, he doesn’t appreciate hearing a refusal. “It’s not up for negotiation, Miss Arias.” One corner of his mouth tips upward, as though he thinks fucking with my life is hilarious. “And now you’ll have two jobs.”

“I already have one job.” I don’t bother to disguise the animosity in my tone. “I don’t need two.”

His expression turns granite hard. Ice-cold prickles of unease dance along my skin as he circles the desk. A thick, intimidating air clings to him as he prowls closer, and my throat threatens to swell closed from fear.

“Too fuckin’ bad.” He draws to a stop in front of me. “And I already talked to Aarón. Told him you’d be workin’ solo from now on.”

“What?” I gape at him incredulously. “How dare you fuck with my life!”

His hand darts out faster than I can react, grasping my ponytail in his fist. In his other hand, he holds a gun beneath my chin. Our eyes war, mine spewing so much hatred and wishes for his demise, it’s a wonder he doesn’t shrivel up on the spot.

“You’re lucky you’re still breathin’, and that’s all thanks to me.” Sharp eyes drill into mine, his lips pressing thin. “Yet you haven’t once shown any gratitude.”

I grit my teeth so hard my molars ache, barely pushing the words out. “Probably because you keep sticking a gun in my damn face.”

His gaze grows squinty, darkening with annoyance, and the muzzle of the gun digs into the tender area beneath my chin. “You’ve got a lot of fuckin’ balls to say that kinda shit to me.”

The final thread barely holding my patience intact snaps. “You know what? Go ahead! I’ve faced death before and managed to survive, so if you’re that intent on killing me, just. Do. It.”

Fuck him for taunting me like this! To continue dangling that threat over me.

Anguish that still manages to edge its way in after all this time has my eyes burning with unshed tears. Wrapping my hands around his grip on the gun, I jab it deeper into my flesh. My voice is hoarse with anger and resentment. “Just do it, you bastard.”

I pinch my eyes closed, willing him to pull that trigger quickly. Memories flash in my mind from my previous life when every day was filled with threats.

Every single moment was tainted by the knowledge that it could be my last. That one more broken bone, one more brutal hit, could mean the end.

And at one point, I yearned for that final, lethal blow.

I thought the universe had finally taken pity on me, but perhaps this has all been a cruel joke. A ploy to make me complacent. To make me feel like I escaped and was granted a second chance.

Ice drips from his every syllable. “Open your goddamn eyes.”

Bracing myself for the inevitable, I pry them open, my gaze colliding with his hard, unyielding stare. His expression is impenetrable. “Better look at me when I pull this trigger.”

Our eyes hold for a long beat, my shallow breaths echoing in the room. His arctic gaze bores into me as if attempting to penetrate through to decipher my thoughts.

When he finally speaks, his voice is low and deceptively subdued. “You’re ready to die, huh?”

I don’t bother to answer him. Instead, I internally beg for this to be over quickly.

I send up a silent prayer to whatever higher being there might be to ease Sabrina’s sadness once she hears the news. She’s become my one friend in this life, and I’m grateful for the brief time I’ve had with her.

From beneath my hold on him, Santiago’s finger twitches on the trigger, and I mash my lips together to suppress any sound. I refuse to give him the pleasure or satisfaction of hearing me whimper in fear.

I fucking refuse.

Midnight-black eyes stare back at me while a muscle in his cheek flexes wildly. In the span of a heartbeat, I’m shoved back with enough force that I lose my balance and slam one hip against the edge of his desk.

Pain blooms in that area, but I barely register the sensation. I’m too busy wondering what happened and why he changed his mind.

He slides his gun into the holster at his back, never tearing his eyes off me. When his gaze drops briefly to my side, I realize I’m absently rubbing the sore spot on my hip. I immediately stop.

His fingers flex, then curl into fists at his sides as if he’s battling internal conflict over his decision not to kill me.

“Listen closely, Miss Arias. When you’re not workin’, you’re gonna be tendin’ to Alma since she seems to like you far more than the nanny. This way, you’ll be close, where I can keep track of you.”

His jaw tenses, his gaze turning so arctic goose bumps rise over my skin. “But don’t for a second think you’re not gonna be watched at all times while you’re with her. One step outta line—one mistake with Alma—and I won’t hesitate to end you.”

I purposely ignore his threats as I protest, “But I don’t know anything about children.”

Those dark brows lift a fraction. “Just like you’re a cleaner and don’t know anythin’ about stitchin’ up a knife wound?”

Shit.

At my silence, a faint, satisfied smirk tugs at his mouth. “That’s what I thought.”

He glances at the watch on his wrist. “I’ve gotta go, but Luis’ll show you where you’ll be stayin’.”

I sputter, “But I have a home! And all my things are there and?—”

“They’ll be delivered here.” He stalks toward the door and pulls it open. Gordo stands there, prepared to do his evil master’s bidding. “Get Miss Arias’s shit sent here.”

I’m left dumbfounded when Santiago breezes out the door before he abruptly spins back around. His intense study of me is unnerving while he delivers another threat. “Don’t make me regret not pullin’ that trigger.”

He and Gordo stride off. With feet that feel as though they’re trapped in wet concrete, I forcibly move toward the door and cautiously peek down the hall in the direction Santiago and Gordo disappeared in.

What the fuck just happened?

With Gordo at his side, Santiago stands at the end of the hallway, speaking quietly with a younger man who listens intently.

As if sensing my perusal, they glance my way. I attempt a casual stance and lean my hip against the doorway, only to wince and immediately straighten. I forgot about that tender spot where a bruise has likely taken up residence after catching the desk’s edge.

Santiago turns and takes two steps, then spins back around and mutters something else to the man. The man nods and glances my way yet again.

Evidently confident his bidding will be carried out, Santiago strolls away with Gordo following him, his large form mostly blocking Santiago from view as they exit.

The other man—Luis, I suppose—approaches where I linger at the doorway. I would guess he’s in his early thirties but is in physically impeccable condition. His massive biceps stretch the black polo he’s wearing while his black slacks mold to his tree-trunk-like thighs.

Wariness mingles with distrust in his features. “Boss said to show you to your room.”

“Right.” With a resigned sigh, I glance down at myself. “I don’t suppose there’s a chance this room will have any extra women’s clothing, will it?”

“I’ll see what I can do.” His reply is so curt it almost sounds robotic, and I bite back a snarky response. If I have to play nice so I can get out of these clothes that have that asshole’s blood soaked into them, then so be it.

“Thank you.”

Surprise flickers in his eyes at my words, but he just tips his head in the opposite direction Santiago went in. “Come with me.”