Chapter Sixteen #2
“Not so fast, Lourdes,” she admonished with a laugh.
Until Enrique and his friends wiped Diego off the map, she wouldn’t rejoin the art community or volunteer at youth centers again.
Everything was just too fragile, too dangerous right now.
Rolling her stiff shoulders, she turned back to her laptop and finished updating her website portfolio with high-definition, watermarked pictures of her latest work.
Then she clicked on an already opened tab for a social media account.
Several notifications popped up.
Over a thousand followers had already liked her I’m Back! and New Art Coming Soon! posts. Tears pricked her eyes at all the happy emojis, glyphs, and well-wishing comments.
Her phone beeped from its charging stand on her desk.
“Now what?” she grumbled and reached for the cell before drawing back her hand.
She’d answered her mother’s frantic texts and voicemails that morning, but to her chagrin, Edita had ranted about her choice to have a nontraditional wedding instead of verifying for herself that Enrique hadn’t hurt her during his whole abduction scheme.
Of course, Enrique would never harm her, but her mother should have at least asked.
Lourdes had ended the call with her stomach in knots and sought solace in setting up her studio.
Pushing down her nerves, she picked up the cell and tapped the new text.
A picture popped onto the screen—one of three.
Lourdes gasped. Her chest caved in as though someone had struck her with a mallet. She clicked through the pictures.
In the first image, Enrique smirked at a woman as she pressed her breasts against his chest. A tiny sequined bra barely covered her assets.
In the second and third images, another big-breasted woman hung on his arm as he grinned and spoke with a bald, muscular man.
Colorful lights pushed back the shadows and sharpened Enrique’s features.
“Fake. They must be fake.” Stomach churning, she checked for faint lines or smudging around the faces or bodies.
Then she eyed the light and shadow angles.
As far as she could tell, the pictures were real.
If Enrique didn’t want the women’s attention, he would scowl at them or push them away. At least, he should.
Another beep. A second message popped up.
—Chicas Asesinas.—
Maldita sea. That was one of the cartel-owned strip clubs.
Cursing, she called the restricted number and clutched the phone so tight her fingers ached.
The heavy lull of silence weighed on her chest. Or was her thrashing heart about to burst?
No one answered. Big surprise. If only she could give the mystery informant an earful.
It had to be Diego. No one else had a reason to try and sabotage her marriage.
She scrolled through her contact list for Enrique’s cell number that he’d given to her the day before.
Her finger hovered over the button. Accusations burned on her tongue, though the pictures could mean anything.
Maybe there was a logical explanation. Either way, she had to have this conversation in person.
She had to see Enrique’s eyes as he denied or confirmed her worst fears.
One thing was certain—whoever had sent the photos wanted to upset her.
She set the phone aside and stomped across the room to stare out the windows.
The view from the seventeenth story spanned the gorgeous Hermosillo skyline to the jagged mountain peaks along the horizon.
Down below, countless vehicles sped by as pedestrians partook of the fancy boutiques, cafés, and grocery stores on the street.
Libertad Torre, her new home, towered over the low-lying buildings and even the other high-rise condominiums in the area.
If anyone was out there watching her through a telescope or with a pair of binoculars, she couldn’t tell.
Breathing through her nerves, Lourdes unpacked her pajamas, socks, and underwear in the sleek black dresser in the master suite and the rest of her clothes in the spacious walk-in closet.
She trailed her fingers across Enrique’s fine linen, wool, and cotton suit jackets, then straightened a few colorful ties on a built-in rack.
This was his home, his personal space—and he’d welcomed her with open arms. He deserved the benefit of the doubt.
She headed back down the hall toward her studio, then paused at his office door.
His locked office door. He’d purposely thrown up a wall between them by banishing her from his work-life and the duty that made him who he was.
That was no marriage. She wouldn’t wait at home like a good little wife, never knowing when he would return and who he had been with.
As much as she loved her mother, she wanted something better.
A decent marriage, equal support, understanding, and fidelity.
Fidelity. God save her. She was already questioning her husband’s faithfulness after only a day of marriage. That boded as well as hail in a thunderstorm. Destruction would follow.
Once she returned to the bedroom, she changed out of her work clothes and pulled on a long blue-striped skirt and a scoop-neck blouse to match.
Then she slipped on her huarache sandals and grabbed her cell and purse.
In the living room, the key to Enrique’s SUV begged her to take it from the shallow Aztec-inspired clay bowl on the side table.
The jagged bit of metal weighed heavier in her hand than all her art supplies put together.
The gleaming elevator doors opened with the push of a button, and she stepped onto the platform before she lost her nerve.
Whatever the truth about those photos, she had to find out.
Now.