When Lies Unfold

Chapter 72

The callwith Rodrigo worked in my favor.

Then again, I should know not to underestimate the lengths narcos will go to because of a grudge, let alone the opportunity to retaliate on behalf of a loved one.

Now that I’ve crossed that off my list, I can move on to the next call. Reaching for the side pocket on my bag, I withdraw a slip of paper with the cell number for the agent Juarez contacted yesterday.

Juarez had refused to give me any information about the agent undercover in Hidalgo’s house besides the number for her current burner phone.

There’s no guarantee she’ll pick up at this hour, but I’m praying she does.

Evidently, someone’s answering prayers because Agent Garcia picks up on the first ring.

“Agent Juarez gave me your number.”

An arctic air encases her words. “This is for emergencies only.”

“I assure you, this constitutes as one.”

“Who is this?”

“Rosa Carrera.”

“Juarez mentioned you were alive.” A healthy dose of suspicion blankets her tone. “Why do I get the feeling whatever you’re about to tell me next, you’re going to say it needs to be off the record?”

“Because it does.” I suck in a deep breath. “If you have at least one ounce of integrity, you’ll want to help me.”

If this is the end for me, I plan to go out in a blaze of glory and take that bastard with me.

The barest hesitation precedes Agent Garcia’s response. “I’m listening.”

I’d be lying if I said those two phone calls put me at ease.

I’m a complicated mess of emotions right now. All I know is I’ve done everything I can to set the stage for Alma’s safe return.

I have no idea what will happen to me after I step back into the prison I once gave everything to escape from. The best-laid plans, as they say, always hold the potential to go awry.

The unexpected tranquility Santy’s office provides helps to soothe my frayed nerves and I take a moment to just…breathe. Though I’m faced with a sense of rightness, on its heels comes a bone-bruising grief. Because I may be doing what’s necessary, but I’d be extremely na?ve if I didn’t plan for the worst.

I need to make one last call, and this one will be one of the hardest.

When she picks up with a groggy, but worried, “You okay?” I battle against the emotion that threatens to clog my throat.

Sabrina’s always been a good soul. And I’ve been lying to her for five years.

“I’m calling because I’ll be away for a bit, and I’m not sure when I’ll be back.”

Her voice takes on a sudden alertness. “What’s wrong? Should I call Nando?”

“No.” I try to instill some calmness in my tone. “I just don’t want you to worry if you don’t hear from me.” I nervously wet my lips before adding quietly, “I’ll miss you while I’m gone, though.”

“You’re scaring me, Lo.” She pauses. “Did that narco bastard do something to you? Because if he did, I swear I’ll?—”

“He didn’t do anything to me, I promise.”

A hesitant pause precedes her next words. “Where are you going?”

“It’s best that I don’t say.” I hurriedly tack on, “But don’t worry. I just need a little time away.”

“How can I not worry?” Her frustrated grunt greets my ears. “You call me at four a.m. and tell me you’re leaving, but won’t tell me where to. Lo…” She trails off with an exhaled breath.

“I’m sorry. But if you need anything”—I swallow hard—“ask Santy.”

A lengthy silence greets my words. She poses the question with slow hesitance. “Ask the narco you’ve been living and sleeping with for help?”

“Yes.”

“You do realize it sounds like you’re saying goodbye permanently, right?”

Because I most likely am. “Just…promise me you’ll go to him if you need anything.”

“I will.” Her voice sounds strained with a barely concealed sob. “And I miss you already.”

“Same.” I pinch my eyes closed against the tears threatening to spill. When I murmur, “Hasta luego,” she echoes the sentiment.

Ending that call has me struggling to maintain hold over my emotions. A few ragged breaths later, I force myself to finish the next necessary task.

It’s why I go in search of a pad of paper.

Santy’s desk is ridiculously meticulous, which is something I wouldn’t have initially expected. Now, though, it doesn’t surprise me.

I sift through the top right drawer, seeking a larger notepad toward the back, when my fingers brush against something unusually soft.

Curiosity has me carefully sliding the object from the rear of the drawer, only to feel my lungs seize at the sight of it.

A distinctively shimmery blue feather fills my palm.

“It can’t be…” The whispered words fall from my lips as shock takes hold.

But as I hold the delicate object, everything falls into place.

Abuelita was right. Fate really is in control.

Barranquilla Carnival

Colombia

12 years earlier

“I feel it in my soul, nieta?1.” My abuelita’s eyes crinkle at the corners, but there’s no denying the sadness lingering on her features.

She gently adjusts the large, decorative mask covering much of my face, stopping just above my top lip. “Tonight will lead you to your fate.”

I don’t have the heart to remind her that she’s wrong. That it’s too late and my fate’s already been decided.

That my own parents chose money over family. That my father agreed to sell me to a monster.

Tomorrow, I’ll be forced to marry a criminal who’s done egregious things I don’t even dare speak of.

Mentally shoving those heavy thoughts aside, I muster a smile for my grandmother. After all, she insisted on this night. She convinced my parents that she had an important indigenous ceremony to administer to me that would properly bless my nuptials.

It’s a lie, of course. She’s insisting that I attend the Barranquilla Carnival. She keeps telling me it’s important for my fate. She said it’ll play a role in the trajectory of my life’s path.

As much as I love her, I don’t know that I share her beliefs. It’s difficult when you’re being sold like a slave.

Abuelita not only did my hair and makeup to better disguise the lower part of my face left bare by the mask, but she also sewed my costume. She included countless sequins and metallic-blue feathers to match the blue morpho butterfly’s trademark wings.

For this particular carnival, people normally chose to dress in elaborate costumes of animals, but I decided to veer away from the norm. Especially since this would be the first and last time I’d be able to attend.

I look like a butterfly—specifically, a blue morpho. Not only have I always found their iridescent blue wings breathtakingly gorgeous, but they represent a freedom, of sorts.

A freedom I’ll be stripped of all too soon.

My black, figure-hugging strapless bodysuit covers my legs, leaving the area above my chest and arms bare but concealed by body paint.

Abuelita runs her fingertips over the delicate metallic-blue feathers affixed to the harness strapped to my shoulders. “My beautiful butterfly. You’ve yet to spread your wings”—she murmurs this softly—“but it’ll happen.”

She fusses over me a final time before shooing me out the door.

Moments later, I’m surrounded by bright lights and the pulsating beat of music as I mingle with the enormous crowd of costumed carnival-goers. I’ve never been permitted to do this before, and although an ominous cloud hangs over me with what tomorrow brings, I’m grateful my grandmother coordinated this for me.

The cacophony of music and chatter is deafening as I venture around a lioness and a gazelle and others in elaborate, colorful costumes. An inexplicable impulse has me moving farther through the crowd. Although my identity is well-concealed, with blue contact lenses, the mask, blonde wig, and body paint, I still feel terribly out of place.

I’ve always been more of a loner, mainly because of my father. His job is incredibly dangerous, which puts us at risk.

He gets paid well to be a lackey for Hidalgo Carrera, but with the deal he’s made—with the “sale” of his daughter—he’s due to significantly increase his wealth.

My sequined outfit is far more revealing and formfitting than I’m used to, but the anonymity my other accessories provide helps ease my worries. No one but my grandmother will ever know that I was here tonight.

The scent of carima?olas?2 fills the air, and I spot a food truck across the crowded street. I edge through the crowd, passing others who ooh and ahh at my costume. I’m halfway across when I see him.

He stands taller than the majority of others, but that’s not initially what has me riveted. He gives the impression that he’s here alone and doesn’t necessarily fit in either.

I tell myself that it’s the carima?olas food truck I’m after, but something draws me toward the man. His eyes appear to lock on me with an intensity that sends a zing of awareness coursing through me.

For a split second, I wonder if he’s one of those men—the ones sent to track my whereabouts. But I’m quickly reminded that they have a certain way about them that I’d recognize. This particular man doesn’t resemble them in the least.

A unique air of confidence surrounds this man, far different than the others. His dark hair is short, buzzed close on the sides with the barest extra bit of length on top.

He’s clean-shaven and dressed in all-black clothing, and his mask resembles a black panther. It’s as large as mine, extending from his hairline to below his nose.

He holds my gaze captive the closer I venture toward him, and the crowd seems to part on its own accord as if it senses the need to yield to his powerful authority.

Once I’m standing before him, I tip my head back to meet his eyes, dark and stormy—the kind that hold trauma and secrets. I’m granted a view of the man who was striking from afar, but up close… Up close, he’s a brand of handsome that’s a unique mix of rugged, dangerous, and sleek.

Even beneath his button-down shirt and slacks, it’s evident he only has the utmost respect for his body. His pants mold to his thick, muscled thighs, and his shirt draws snug around his firm-looking biceps.

With a sharp jawline, his eyes are so piercing, it’s as though his gaze threatens to delve directly into your mind.

He doesn’t bother attempting to speak over the cacophony. He simply offers me his large palm in silent question.

When I place my hand in his, it feels…meaningful somehow. Life-changing, even though I know that’s impossible.

My life is already set on a path. But tonight, I’m allowed to pretend to be someone else.

Someone different. Someone free.

Tonight, I can give in—just a little—to the magic of what this night and this man offer.

PRESENT

My heart lodges in my throat at the memories that still remain so vibrant in my mind.

I run my fingertip over the metallic-blue feather and let it envelop me in a sense of rightness.

Pulling out the notepad, my hand trembles as I write each painstaking word. I blink rapidly against the tears threatening to spill free.

My abuelita had been right all along. She somehow knew fate would intervene at that carnival.

I never could’ve imagined how powerful fate really is.

Once finished, I set the pen on the wooden surface, sadness permeating every fiber of my body. When I trace a finger over my inked words, I can almost feel the emotion emanating from my heartfelt sentiment.

Regret blankets my movements as I carefully and painstakingly fold the paper around the feather.

The sudden appearance of a shadow darkening the doorway has my head snapping up in alarm.