When Lies Unfold

Chapter 81

TWO HOURS PRIOR TO THE INITIAL EXPLOSION

I feel much betterthan I look.

And I look like absolute shit.

Although my fractured ribs aren’t visible, everything else is. My left eye’s swollen shut, the bruise along my right cheekbone is now a lovely shade of purple, and my skin is scabbed from where Hidalgo’s ring broke the surface.

I consider myself lucky that my hands and legs are still in working order.

Just a little longer…I’ve been silently reciting this while I wait for Agent Garcia to make contact.

I’ve already contemplated what to do if she doesn’t do so within the forty-eight-hour window she set. Scenarios flitted through my mind, but the end result is always the same.

I will kill Hidalgo Carrera, regardless of the cost.

The deep voice from the guard standing outside my room drifts beneath the door. “Not supposed to let anyone in.”

Irritation colors the woman’s voice. “Mrs. Carrera’s suffering from her menstrual cycle. I’m here with the necessities to alleviate her discomfort.”

An awkward beat of silence lingers. “I’ll need to inspect everything.”

“Of course you will,” the woman scoffs. “I’d report you for negligence if you didn’t.”

A moment later, suspicion drenches the guard’s tone. “What’s this for?”

While Hidalgo’s the reason I don’t have a uterus, I still have my ovaries and cervix. I don’t normally have painful cramping similar to when my female parts were all fully intact, but with the high-stress situation I’m in, my body is quite upset at the moment.

“For alleviating her menstrual cramps, of course. From what I can tell, Mrs. Carrera’s ovaries are?—”

“That’s enough.” Like most men, the guard balks and rushes on with, “Go ahead.”

The outside lock on the door clicks before the guard draws it open, allowing the woman inside.

“Make it quick,” he warns before slamming the door shut.

In her starched staff uniform, hair perfectly coiffed per Hidalgo’s standards, the woman rushes toward the dresser. I scan her critically, wondering how long she’s been working for him.

She lifts her tray to the wooden surface, and her eyes meet my good one in the mirror’s reflection.

I wonder if she knows how horrific her boss is or if she simply doesn’t give a shit.

God knows I was once surrounded by dozens of employees paid to look the other way. Even if they didn’t want to, the threat on their life and those of their loved ones was always enough to ensure their silence.

The woman’s tone is polite and businesslike as she surveys me from head to toe. When she doesn’t register the slightest bit of concern on her features, I suppose that answers my question.

“How are you feeling today, Mrs. Carrera?”

“I’ve been better.”

I’m careful with my response, because I know Hidalgo has every inch of this place wired for surveillance. This room may not have a camera—at least not one I could detect—but I’m confident I’m monitored by audio.

“Are you still suffering from abdominal cramps?”

I squint at her but instantly regret the facial expression that causes pain to lance through me. My tone is wary. “Yes.”

“Just as I thought.” Her tone is conversational. “It’s best to have something on hand for the discomfort.”

Every fiber in my body tenses, because something feels off about this. I can’t pinpoint if it’s her eerily calm tone or the strange fact that she’s questioning me about my menstrual cramps. Hidalgo never wanted to know a thing about that, let alone permitted it to be mentioned.

I edge a step backward, my back flush with the window barred from the outside. Frantically, I scan the room for any available weapon, but the only one I have is the metal track I removed from the middle dresser drawer.

The same dresser she’s standing in front of.

With careful precision, she sets out a heating pad and two options for pain relievers on the dresser.

Once she backs away, she carefully slides her hand into her apron and removes something.

“If you can hold out a bit longer”—her eyes lift, possessing an odd intensity—“you’ll soon be free of discomfort.”

I regard her silently, our eyes holding as she crosses the room. When she reaches for my hand, I stiffen, the fingers of my other hand curling into a fist. She tucks a small foldable pocketknife into my palm and presses my fingers closed around it.

Is this a setup of some sort? I don’t dare say a word. I stand stock-still while the woman backs away. She gathers her tray and offers a subdued smile. “Be sure to get extra rest, Mrs. Carrera.”

On cue, the guard swings open the door, his gaze as suspicious as ever. But she wordlessly steps past him and disappears from sight.

When the guard’s attention lands on me, his eyes turn arctic. His index and middle fingers are taped in a splint, thanks to me.

He tried to put his hands somewhere he shouldn’t have, all under the guise of searching me a second time for weapons.

He was a tattletale, of course. His wounded ego had wanted retaliation against the woman who’d hurt him and his ego. With Hidalgo’s gleeful permission, the guard had punched me in the face for my misbehavior.

The asshole’s punch knocked me off-balance. Before I could get to my feet, Hidalgo delivered a handful of brutal kicks, gifting me with newly fractured ribs.

I suppose I should be impressed that it only took a few hours for me to sustain this many injuries. In years past, he would never outsource the torture, but things have significantly shifted.

Lifting my chin a notch, I meet the guard’s gaze head-on. Pure disgust radiates from him, only intensifying when he notices the sanitary pads on the dresser.

Like the petulant asshole he is, he stomps out, slamming the door shut behind him. The lock slides into place a moment later.

Holy shit. My skin prickles with nervous anticipation. I have a weapon now—a much more viable one, too. But I still can’t confirm whether I was given this knife to protect myself or to be caught red-handed as another reason to incur a beating.

I have no way of knowing if that was Agent Garcia or not, and with everything being monitored, I can’t afford to make an error.

But as I test the knife’s weight in my hand, it births a new brand of hope.

This knife could very well be my saving grace.