DIABLO INSIDE

by Amarie Avant

Chapter Seventy

  Aria

  Rolling over onto my side, I reach for the pillow laced in Dominic’s scent. Even in sleep, I’ve cried for and because of him.

  “Oye,” comes a feminine groan.

  “Oh, sorry,” I mutter. Roslyn came over after I threw Dominic out. I sit up. A cornucopia of individual-sized tubs of Ben & Jerry’s is on the ground around the bed. We packed on a week’s worth of calories as we watched late-night breaking news.

  The man being dubbed as El Santo had been released. I don’t know if that was my heart’s saving grace for not having to spill the beans to Roslyn about Dominic’s actions. My body shivers at how he’d held me facedown into the mattress.

  “You good, chica?” Roslyn mumbles.

  I shrug my shoulders.

  “What did he do?” she asks, lacking her usual forceful insistence.

  “We disagreed on a few things.” I grab the remote and turn up the television, which we had watched all night long and, apparently, for half the day. A reality court television show displays the time of 1 p.m.

  Her gaze creeps across my skin for any telltale signs. “I’ll shower, Ros, then make us breakfast or lunch? What would you like? I can’t believe I keep sleeping so late into the day.”

  “You? Cook? What the—I’m gonna beat his ass. He crossed the line!”

  “Calm down. We had a verbal spat. I’ll zap a Pop-Tart for me. Some frozen waffles for you.”

  “You do that, chica. Then we talk.”

  I head toward my bathroom, going through the motions, and dress in jeans and a shirt. In the kitchen, I grab the box of Eggos from the freezer and place them into the stainless-steel toaster. I move around nonstop until my Pop-Tart has burnt edges, something which once brought out my inner happiness.

  Sweets were my favorite pastime until Dominic. Damn, Aria, that’s where you went wrong. Men should never be our happy. I move the cookie jar, so I can grab the bamboo tray to place our breakfast and glasses of milk on it. Upon slinging the cookie jar back into place, I stare at it.

  “I never did use you, did I? Same-day shipping with Amazon Prime, but you were expensive.” I roll my eyes, chuckling at myself for chiding an inanimate object.

  I muse over how Dominic had come into the kitchen before flipping out. Why?

  “Okay, Aria. You’re no detective, and clearly, you can’t pick ‘em.” I berate myself, hand clinging to my heart. From my jean pocket, I grab my cellphone. The 20% battery warning pops up. I click on the application, which I downloaded after purchasing the cookie jar to catch Messy Miranda in the act of consuming my food, long ago.

  “What a liar,” I mutter, tears welling in my eyes. God, how I wish to point all the blame to her for no reason.

  I scroll backward on the grainy video feed that I had never used since purchasing it from Amazon. I stop and watch Miranda enter the kitchen with Dominic. The muscles in my mouth twitch, teeth clenched. Across the way, the backlit signal above the elevator indicates that it’s active. I stalk over to the butcher block and grab a knife.

  “Aria, stop. She ain’t worth it!” I tell myself, but the handle clings to my palm. I stalk around the island to the elevator doors, ready to, at the very least, threaten Miranda that I’m breaking the lease—no breach—because of her actions. The doors swoosh open.

  “I should . . .” Instead of Miranda in last night’s club attire, I glare into mossy green pools. I roll my eyes at Dominic, repulsed by his green eyes, by all of him. A black suit covers his shoulders, hugging his biceps. Eye candy for any other woman. Not me. He has the nerve to smell so yummy too.

  “Dom, I said that I didn’t want to see you for a while.”

  “We need to talk. You’re blocking my—”

  I slam the knife down onto an accent table as Roslyn flies into the room.

  “Oye, what are you doing to my friend!”

  She rushes over to the table, wields the knife, pointing it at him. The all-too-familiar sound of Oldies music, laughter, and an ice cream truck’s call reach out to me.

  An impossibly vivid memory catches me by surprise. Generally, I have a moment to touch something and cling to reality. But this time, I never get the chance to attempt an anchor. Sarah keeps waving at my parents over my shoulder. I condemn myself for being so innocent, for not speaking.

  Words well in my throat. Swallowing hard, I try to muster the courage to speak of my worry.

  I come to when Roslyn swipes the knife at Dominic as his fingertips glide through mine.

  “Roslyn, stop. Fucking stop it. I’m trying to help her. Come back to me, Mami.” He pulls me into his arms, running a hand along my back. “I don’t understand why you’re angry. But come back to me, por favor.”

  My lips begin to tremble as his start to crash down on mine. “No.”

  “No? Chula. Why?” He’s crushed. My ovaries volunteer as tribute to offer him a baby, but my brain clashes. Am I crazy? Is he a jealous, pathological . . .

  He’s a cheater. At the very least, I’ve seen it with my own eyes.

  “Please leave.”

  “Leave!” Roslyn’s blade sails between us. I jump back. Dominic stands his ground, eyes on me only.

  “My crazy woman.” In Spanish, he strums together words that melt my insides. Yet when I blink, an image of his fingers thrusting into Miranda hardens my heart.

  “I’m not your crazy woman anymore, Dom. I already said we were over a few days ago. Then you . . . My first instinct is my best one. Please go.”

  Fire burns in his eyes.

  “Go, cabrón!” Roslyn growls.

  “Okay, I’ll give you time. But we aren’t done, Aria.” He saunters back onto the elevator.

  “The fuck we aren’t!”

  “You will talk to me. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but you will.” The elevator doors close behind him.

  “Aria, how do you stop this stupid elevator? Dominic shouldn’t be able to get inside so easily! He thinks he can make you talk to him, ha! We’ll see about that.” Roslyn reaches inside her tee and snatches her cellphone from her padded bra.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m calling Antonio.”

  “Why?”

  “Because.” She starts then steps away from me. “Hey, baby. Aria needs your help.”

  I call after her, but she’s strutting down the hall to my bedroom. Heading into the kitchen, I toss the knife, and it clatters into the sink. I heave a breath and stride to my room.

  Roslyn is seated on the couch at the foot of my bed.

  “You look like a woman scorned. You put the knife on him, Ros. Damn.”

  “You had it.”

  “I-I put it down. You saw me.”

  “First, the pendejo gave you a reason to brandish it. Sí? I’m right.”

  “What was I thinking?” I run a hand over my face.

  “You were shaking. I have never seen you so angry in my life. What did he do?”

  My hands shake in fists at my sides. “I hate this feeling, Ros. Why did you tell Antonio I need help? Just a silly broken heart.”

  “Ehhhh.” She lowers her eyes.

  I sling the accusation back at her. “What did you do?”

  “Well, lemme say first, I might be pregnant, so consider that while reacting.”

  “Pregnant?” I screech, falling back onto the other couch.

  “Sí.” She nods. “I’m hormonal as fuck. I craved blood when I saw you holding that knife. I wanted to kill him. Speaking of killing, ahem.”

  “What?”

  “I kind of mentioned our journal to Antonio and how Dominic’s Cuban girlfriend died. He was particularly interested in her research on butterflies. Then I made a small inference, one which included Dominic as El Santo.”

  Chapter Seventy-One

  El Santo

  Curling my fingers under, I toss a fist at my chest. Then another and another. I pound as fire funnels through my lungs in a hard growl.

  “Roarrrr!”

  Though t
he police released Perez late last night, LeAnna consumes my mind.

  The old, dank building I own has a small haze of light coming into the restroom. In front of a cracked mirror, my chest expands and retracts, with each hard breath. I stalk past a pee-stained commode and out of the room. To the left is where I complete my ritual. I head down the corridor to the right. At the stainless-steel doors, I yank hard.

  It’s déjà vu. Rats scurry. Soft, hopeless sobs come from the pitch darkness of the room. I stalk inside, flashlight in hand. A soft ray of light lands on Angelica.

  “You’re not a gordita anymore.” I smile, crouching down to her. I pull the duct tape from her lips.

  “Why did you bring me back here, El Santo?” she inquires between sniffles. “We’re friends.”

  “Sí, dos amigos.” My fingertips glide across the puddle of tears on her cheek. Suddenly, my vision shatters into a thousand facets of Angelica. What I was looking for in LeAnna, I found in her.

  “You are loyal, Angelica.”

  “I’ll always be loyal to you.” Her bottom lip trembles.

  “The others were loyal too.” I settle down next to her, leaning back against the cement wall. “Yet, I have the faint feeling their allegiance wasn’t pure, Angelica. Just a bid to stay anchored to this bad world for a while longer.”

  “They weren’t true to you, not like me.” With her hands bound behind her back, she tilts, placing all her weight onto her shoulder, causing her upper body to slide over. Angelica lands against me. Her head rests on my shoulder.

  My fingers run through her hair only to be halted by matted bits. Growling, I yank my fingers through and climb until I’m straddling her waist.

  “El—”

  “Someone stole my fucking name, Angelica.” She writhes as my fingers lace across her throat. I slam the back of her head into the wall. “I have to get my name back. I have to get my woman! My woman because you aren’t enough. You aren’t pretty. I can’t love an ugly puta like you.”

  Gurgling and tiny smacking sounds resurrect the vigor in my bones. My arms move rapidly, slamming her back. The blubbering fades into oblivion. The smacking hollows. Warm, stickiness sprinkles across my face. A fragment of skull nicks at my brow.

  Mush. Mush. Mush. Squish.

  I remove my hands from her neck. Angelica’s corpse slumps to the side. A line of blood arches in its wake. The blunt force in the center is muddled by brain matter and strands of her hair.

  “You could never satisfy me!” I point an accusatory finger at Angelica. “Fuck, this did nothing for me.”

  Deprived of gratification, I clamor to my feet, toss a foot into her gut, and exit the room.

  In the main room, I pick through a duffle bag I’d packed when leaving Dominic’s home for the last time. After using a few baby wipes to clean up and changing into a thermal and jeans, I remove my laptop to check in on LeAnna.

  She’s still home with Roslyn consoling her. A notification comes up from Detective Carrington. He’s made another note in his computer.

  I glance over it. My pupils do a double-take at the new name of interest.

  Mi hermano?

  I check the tracker on Dominic’s phone. He’s in Miami. When did he return? I hadn’t even reconnected his cellular and LeAnna’s after he’d last left a voicemail. It rerouted to me last night. He was supposed to stay the entire week in Cuba. My plan was to give LeAnna a few days to cool off before settling into her life as my hermano, for good.

  Since I missed his arrival, I scroll over the interaction between Roslyn and Aria on my other feed. There’s a short window where Dominic showed up.

  Aria denied him. I go back farther—the nanny cam. I forgot to erase it. Hmm. That worked out in my favor. Mi hermano wasn’t able to talk his way back in. Good.

  Now, he’s a person of interest with Miami PD. My lips curve into a smile. This is a sign. Mami would undoubtedly roll over in her grave had I carried out my plan to become Dominic and steal LeAnna.

  However, if anyone is to become El Santo, let it be him. Let him fry. I’ll go to my woman, no veil of deception. She needs me.

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  Dominic

  “Are you waving your right to an attorney?” Peachy says, eyes boring straight through me.

  “Sí? I survived bad cop, good cop, too.” I glance toward the two-way mirror. “Now, would you like to accuse me of something grossly preposterous?”

  “I’m coming to you as a friend, Dom.” She leans forward in her chair. “I was at Ms. Balzan’s funeral as Dario’s and your friend.”

  “Why are you talking about Alejandra?”

  “At her funeral, did you and your brother engage in an altercation?”

  “Did we fight? No, Peachy. You saw Dario lose his fucking mind. Not me.” Damn, now I’m inferring my brother has a hostile mindset. “What do Alejandra, Dario, and I have to do with El Santo?”

  She stares at me and, after a beat, speaks up. “Ms. Balzan resembled every single one of El Santo’s victims.”

  “Listen, I’ve offered you receipts and alibis for any day deemed necessary for your investigation. I told the other two detectives ‘no’ hours ago. Just because we’ve built a rapport over the years, doesn’t exclude you from the same response. Fuck no, I’m not providing DNA.”

  “I can understand how discouraging it would feel to find out the woman you’re madly in love with is two-timing you. With your very own twin, no less.” As she talks, she creates a motive. I latch on to every word. “You saw photos, Dominic. Carrington grilled you with them. Images of women positioned specifically. Butterflies left. Alejandra had a thing for butterflies. Alejandra resembled every single victim in looks, character, demeanor. She’s gone. Died a few years before El Santo surfaced.”

  “That’s true.” I agree with Peachy, gesturing for her to continue with the speculation. It’s the only card the detectives have.

  “Our victims were positioned with the utmost care. I saw the same adoration in your eyes when—”

  “Alright, I’m out of here, Peachy. You’ve said this already. I’m to assume the broken record means you all are out of theories.” I rise from my seat, having reached my intended destination—what evidence they have. Their hunch will be kicked back by the DA.

  “You can’t—”

  “Don’t finish that statement, Peachy.” I offer her a cool smile, unbuttoning the top two buttons of my linen shirt, and prepare to bite her head off with the law. Peachy comes around the table, and I stare down at her.

  “Dom,” her voice lowers, her stance stiff. A cloud of nerves surrounds her as she mouths. “Can Dario walk?”

  “No,” I whisper. I pause for effect then add, “I’m not staying here another second.”

  She’d made a pointed attempt to inquire about Dario outside the view of video surveillance or the voice recorder.

  I recall Peachy asking about Dario after the homicide at the park months ago. She was desperate while raving about his abilities.

  Why does guilt flicker in her gaze? More importantly, what has Dario been up to? Papi’s stories of Dario’s mutilating animals when we were young runs to the forefront of my mind. I reminisce on Mami’s tears. I hadn’t thought of her crying over his actions in so long. Things start to come back. Now, all I can remember is his lack of guilt. Now that I think of it, I’ve never seen a look of remorse on his face.

  At the door, I stop in front of Peachy and speak in a gritted whisper, “Whatever you’re contemplating. Don’t. He is my brother. My twin. I’ll fight for Dario just as sure as I’ll fight for myself.”

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  Aria

  Entering my bedroom, I thrust the pee-pee stick like a sword, high above my head. In the voice of a mid-century knight, I say, “I have penetrated the enemy’s defenses.”

  Roslyn stops folding a shirt, slips it into my rollaway bag, and claps her hands. “You stole a ten-dollar pregnancy test from Messy Miranda?”

  “I sure did.
” Sauntering over, I stop long enough to grip the neck of a bottle of wine on the coffee table. After taking a swig, I toss the test to her. It flops into the rollaway luggage Roslyn’s helping me pack.

  “Go!” I point the Pinot Noir to the bathroom.

  “I’ll do it once we get to my place. I’m creeped out by the elevator. We spent almost two hours arguing about my executive decision. It’s getting dark out.”

  “I’m staying home.” I fall back into bed. Wine sloshes over my fingers as I settle against the headboard. “I need to paint; it’s my outlet.”

  “Bullshit. You’ll wallow in self-pity the second I leave. I will fight you. Happy? Do we need male-bashing music?”

  “Take the test. I’ll start the music.” I climb over the bed and hug her. “You’re worried. It’s okay, Ros.”

  “If I’m pregnant. . .”

  “The world doesn’t run on what-ifs. I’ll give you a fact. I’ll be there regardless of Antonio’s intentions.”

  Nodding, Roslyn slinks into the bathroom. Minutes later, she returns, skin clammy and white.

  “I’m here for you,” I murmur. The outcome is written on her face.

  “When you spoke of Antonio’s intentions, I should’ve told you. The baby might be Francisco’s. Antonio has been perfect, forgiving. We both know Francisco is no good.”

  I huff. “Ros, you got this. We got this. You’ll be the best mommy either way. Baby will have Auntie Aria. More aunts and uncles and primas than—”

  Clasping her hands over her mouth, Roslyn pivots on the balls of her feet. She sprints back into the bathroom, vomiting loudly.

  “Oh no,” I groan. As I rise from the bed to go to her, I catch a glint from the side of my eye.

  A blade drags along the limestone walls, propelling the tiny hairs on the nape of my neck to stand on end. Dominic enters the bedroom, holding a knife next to his bulging thigh. He’s changed from the suit, back into jeans and boots.

  “I kept telling myself to give you more time, mami. For too long, I’ve granted you all the patience in the world.”