47
Damian watches his partner pick at the piece of white fish on her plate, moving it around without taking a bite.
She’d complained of being hungry at the beach, but now she’s barely eating.
She’s drinking, though. Bianca is halfway through her second glass of white wine.
She brings the glass to her lips, eyes fixed on the stunning view their patio table offers.
“Look at the color of the water,” Damian says, keeping the conversation upbeat. “You never see anything like this back home.” He forks up some fish from his own plate, stuffs it into his mouth. “And this fish is so fresh. You should eat, babe.”
“I had too much pan con tomate,” she mumbles, setting down her wineglass. “I’m full.”
“Save room for dinner. Curtis will make us anything we want.” He’s trying to make this fun—they should savor Curtis’s servitude—but Bianca doesn’t want to play.
“I’ve lost my appetite.” She fixes him with glare. “Since you told me you want to let Curtis off the hook, I feel sick to my stomach.”
Damian had expected this. He exhales through his nose, maintains a calm tone. “I’m not letting him off the hook. But I’m not going to walk away with nothing either. We have our future to think about.”
“My sister doesn’t have a future thanks to Curtis Lowe.” Bianca picks up her wine and drinks. “That’s all I care about.”
“That’s a foolish attitude.”
“Fuck you,” she snaps, and he sees a woman at the next table glance over at them.
Damian leans forward, keeps his voice low. “We came here to hurt Curtis, and we will. But we had an agreement. We had a plan.”
“You’re the one backing out of our plan. You’re so worried about Sydney that you’re willing to let Curtis skate for what he’s done.”
“He’ll still suffer, Bianca. He’ll still lose his wife. And his house.” He leans back and takes a sip of his cold Spanish beer. “If we’re too rigid, he might break down and tell Sydney everything. We should be ready to accept a couple mill if that’s the best he can do.”
“I’m not haggling over my sister’s life.”
Damian’s temper swells, and he feels heat flushing his face. “What about my life?” he growls. “I’ve given up so much for you and that fucking kid. It’s about time I got what I wanted.”
For a tense moment, Bianca doesn’t speak; she just stares at him with her wild eyes. They’re so cold, so dangerous. He expects her to toss her wine in his face or throw the glass. But she scrapes her chair back. “I’ll meet you at the car later. I’ve got some errands to run.”
Damian sips his beer, breathes, tries to get his heart rate to return to normal.
When their server passes by, he signals for the bill.
As he waits, he picks up Bianca’s glass and finishes the rest of her wine.
He knows his partner will calm down eventually, but he also knows she won’t change her mind.
She’s always been so stubborn, so immovable.
To Bianca, five million dollars equals Curtis Lowe’s ruination.
Anything less means he got away with murder.
Damian pays la cuenta when it comes, leaving a decent tip.
He’s slightly embarrassed by his public fight with Bianca, and besides, soon money will be no object.
He nods to the woman at the next table who’d heard his girlfriend curse at him and walks out toward the bay.
Bianca needs time to cool off, so he steers clear of the shops and strolls the seaside path toward Portlligat.
For the first time since they met, Damian can envision a life without his childhood sweetheart.
He’s loved her since they were kids, but he can picture a future on his own now.
He can imagine himself happy—happier—without Bianca’s dark, wounded presence.
If he’s forced to choose between his partner and a couple million, he’ll take the money.
He can’t go backward, not now that he’s come this far.
He’ll take whatever Curtis offers, and he’ll split.
Bianca can stay behind and wreak her havoc.
Damian has never articulated the thought out loud, but he doesn’t believe Curtis killed Lyric.
Not technically, anyway. Is Curtis culpable?
Probably. But he’s just one of a confluence of factors that contributed to the girl’s death.
Deep down, Bianca knows it’s true, but she’s so desperate for someone to blame that she’s convinced herself that Curtis is responsible.
She believes the only way she can find any peace or healing is by ruining him.
Bianca had been foolish to think that Lyric would recover from her trauma simply by changing her scenery.
Moving back to Indiana, moving in with them, was not going to be a cure-all after the abuse she’d suffered.
The kid was damaged, she probably needed therapy, but Bianca didn’t think that way.
And they couldn’t afford it. Lyric was still Yvonne’s dependent, and the woman couldn’t keep a job long enough to get insurance.
Lyric had only been living with them a month or so when the problems started.
Bianca had convinced her sister to return to high school, to get her diploma.
Or so she’d thought. A call from the school counselor informed her otherwise.
The counselor had already called Yvonne but had been met with indifference, so she contacted Bianca.
“Lyric hasn’t been coming to class,” she said. “She’s on academic probation. If she doesn’t start turning up, she’ll be expelled.”
“I’ll talk to her,” Bianca promised.
“There’s something else…” the counselor had said. “I suspect your sister is abusing drugs. I gave your mother the name of a substance abuse counselor, but Lyric hasn’t gone to see him. She needs help, Bianca. She can’t do this on her own.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
But Bianca couldn’t heal a traumatized, drug-addicted child.
She was too young and damaged herself. She’d made a valiant effort, though.
Bianca read books on teen addiction, watched YouTube videos with drug counselors.
At first, she tried patience and understanding with her sister.
When that had no effect, she came down hard, setting boundaries and offering ultimatums. But Lyric had always been adept at manipulation and the drugs made her even more wily.
She played her mom and her big sister against each other, lied to get what she wanted.
Lyric was too far gone. The tragic ending was already written.
Damian has reached the end of the paved path where the road turns inland, gets hot and dusty.
He takes off his cap, pushes back his sweaty hair.
His mouth is furry from too much beer and not enough water.
He turns back toward town and sees the dark clouds gathering in the distance.
He’s grown accustomed to endless blue skies, but a storm is brewing.
Bianca will need more time to cool off, but he’s not going to stand out here and get drenched.
As he heads to the car, his mind drifts back to Indiana, to that terrible night.
Bianca’s phone had rung around 2:00 a.m. Damian had smoked a joint before bed, so he’d been slow to wake up. He was still coming to when Bianca answered and started screaming. He heard her terror, and he heard her rage. It was Yvonne on the phone. Lyric was in the hospital. She’d overdosed.
By the time they arrived, the girl was dead.
Well, her brain was dead; her young body was refusing to shut down, clinging to life out of habit, not desire.
But there was no hope of recovery. The doctors counseled Yvonne to let her go, but Bianca refused.
She held Lyric’s limp hand and begged her to come back, as if she could repair the girl’s damaged brain through sheer force of will.
But of course, she couldn’t. The next day, they let her go.
Damian had taken Bianca home, held her in his arms, tried to soothe her with his words.
“You were a good sister. This isn’t your fault.”
“I know.”
“Lyric was an addict. There’s no one to blame.”
Bianca had turned her dry eyes up to his. “Yes, there is. His name is Curtis Lowe.”