Chapter 35
Chapter Thirty-Five
“We’ve searched everywhere,” Miranda said, sobbing.
With my heart in my throat, I stared down at twelve-year-old Ricardo, who leaned over a warm bowl of chicken soup.
“Where is he?” I demanded. “You were with him last.”
Ricardo shrugged and dipped a piece of bread into his soup.
I half expected Jacob, barely seven years old, to burst in through the kitchen door and shout about his adventures – the tree he’d climbed, the castle he’d defended, or the imaginary army he’d taken on and won.
“Ricardo, you must tell us,” Alicia said.
Something about his uneasy smile, the way his eyes avoided us, it was as though he was trying to hide something. He was his father’s son.
He shifted in his seat. “Jacob ran away.”
I slumped next to him and drew upon my last remnants of patience. “What are you talking about?”
I caught visions from Ricardo’s wandering mind and grabbed his wrist.
“He was frightened.” Ricardo fixed his gaze on his spoon.
“Of what?”
“You.” He yanked his wrist away.
I reached for the bowl and threw it against the wall. Soup splattered.
Ricardo flinched. “You scared him,” he said.
My fingernails dug into my palms.
“He was terrified.” His tone was strangely even, reflecting no emotion.
“And yet you remained behind?”
“I’m not frightened of you.”
“You’re lying.” I held back a sob. “Where is he?” I tried to stay calm, but I could feel the tingle of my fangs.
Ricardo’s expression portrayed innocence. “I don’t know.”
Rivulets of brown soup trickled down the wall and met the floor.
“Tell me,” I snapped.
“Ricardo!” Miranda said, a warning in her voice.
When I glanced at my palms, I saw beads of blood. I’d punctured my own flesh with my fingernails. I leaped from my chair.
Ricardo stared up at me. “Jacob knew that you killed my father.”
Alicia sat beside him. “What are you talking about?”
“We overheard you.” Ricardo glared at me. “You admitted to Aunt Miranda that you murdered my father.”
“Dear God.” Alicia drew in a sharp breath.
Ricardo rose. “You lied to Mama that Papa fled Spain.”
“Those were not my words.” I glanced at Alicia.
“What has this got to do with Jacob?” Alicia asked.
Ricardo glanced at a discarded knife on the table. “What did you tell my father before you killed him?”
Alicia looked horrified.
“My father was a good man,” Ricardo muttered. “A fine politician. He would never want us to live like this.”
Feeling a terrible sense of despair at not seeing this coming, I scoured Ricardo’s mind. “No!”
“What?” Alicia gasped. “You’re scaring me.”
“He sold him,” I said in disbelief.
Ricardo stared at me in amazement, his thoughts carrying.
“How could you know that?”