Selective/Memory: The Depth of Emotion Book 2 (The Depth of Emotion)

by Lorenzo, DD

  She began to push Marchelle out of the room.

  “Just go somewhere so she can’t see you when she regains consciousness. I’ll call for you when I need you,” she instructed.

  Marchelle ran off, eager to no longer be an object of attention for Marisol. She didn’t like to be around her when she was angry. Although she felt bad for the woman in the chair, there was nothing she could do to help her…

  Yes, she must have done something very, very bad…

  Aria didn’t know how long she’d been out, but she knew it was now night time. Although hazy, she attempted to adjust her vision as her eyes slowly roamed the room for a hint of familiarity. She could tell her one eye was now swollen as her vision was narrowed to barely a sliver on that side. Her chair had been placed upright and moved. She was precariously angled near a set of stairs that led down and to the outside patio.

  As she attempted to look over her shoulder, she saw that toward her back was a large window. Though dark, she heard water in that same direction. Her memory began to serve her as she recalled remodeling this house. She and Paige had been here a few times since its completion. The thoughts lead her to wonder what had happened to Mister or Miss Vencedor.

  What had Marisol done with them, or did she know them at all? Where were they? Had she hurt them also?

  “Well, hello, Aria. So nice of you to rejoin me.”

  Marisol’s cryptic voice that came from behind startled Aria, sending her heart racing and her breathing into a hyperactive state.

  She came into Aria’s sight, walking over to a table across from Aria, where she had poured herself some wine. An elegantly curved glass sat next to a crystal ashtray. It appeared that at least one glass had been consumed while she was unconscious.

  Focus, Aria. Focus!

  Her shoulders, neck, and arms were sore and stiff from the bindings. Slowly moving her head, she felt a monstrous jolt of pain in her face, and she was certain she had a fracture in her cheekbone. When an attempt was made to open her mouth, all she felt was swollen tissue.

  Thinking it imperative to remain aware of all Marisol’s activities, she forced herself to look ahead of her, directly at her captor. She was setting up a make-up stand near the table.

  Really? She’s going to do her make-up? What the hell kind of crazy is she?

  Mirrors and brushes could be seen through Aria’s impaired vision, but as she strained for closer inspection, terror gripped at her throat. Metal implements and instruments of the sharp and pointed variety, much like one would see in manicuring or esthetics, were also being laid on the table—one by one—and she felt a tear escape.

  “Aww…What’s wrong, Aria?” Marisol clipped, asking her from the short distance. “Afraid of a little makeup lesson?”

  She paused, peeking around the case. Aria’s reaction caused her to laugh under her breath as she saw the look of terror her victim wore. Arrogantly, she gathered a few implements in a towel that she placed in her hand.

  Kicking off her pumps, she lost some of her imposing height as she stood in front of Aria. She lowered her chin just barely to the top of Aria’s head.

  “Look at me,” she ordered.

  When Aria didn’t comply in a protective attempt, it fueled Marisol’s anger. She lifted her knee forcefully, hitting her squarely in the chin.

  As Aria groaned in pain, she repeated loudly, “I said—Look. At. Me!”

  Marisol raised Aria’s puffy and tear-stained face toward her, forced to watch as a thin metal blade came toward her face. Aria tried to jerk, but Marisol grabbed her by the hair.

  “I think we should begin by giving you a nice contour line—right along your jawline…” she said, slicing the razor sharp blade along the left side of Aria’s jaw.

  Aria cried out, a high pitched scream, but Marisol roared with laughter as she continued to slice. She didn’t cut deep, slicing only to disfigure and cause pain.

  Throwing Aria’s head back when she was finished, Marisol pushed away from her, moving back to her station of tools.

  Aria, bordering to struggle with hysteria, mumbled as she tried to cry out, “Why are you doing this? Do you hate me that much?”

  Dismissing her question, Marisol entertained the next method of suffering she’d force her captive to incur.

  “I neither hate, nor like you, really,” Marisol said with an inconsequential air.

  Holding up a piece of shiny metal so Aria could see it, she looked at her to insure the best vantage point with which to lavish her sadism.

  “You are in my way, so you have to go,” she simply stated, and she returned her attention to selecting the next implement.

  The tears began to make their way down Aria’s face, finding their way into her fresh wounds and burning them with their salt.

  “Have you ever felt remorse?” she tried to ask, her speech distorted from the swelling. “Are you sorry for anything you’ve done?”

  “No,” Marisol replied, looking up as if in thought. “Not really. I didn’t feel any remorse when Carter’s wife died, and I don’t feel anything now.”

  Aria’s eyes went wide. She tried to process the statement Marisol had made, not wanting to believe the implication.

  “What do you mean? You don’t know about that? You didn’t even know Lacey. Declan would never take you to meet her,” she rambled.

  Insulted, Marisol stopped what she was doing and glared at Aria.

  “Why would you think that, Aria?” Marisol asked angrily. “Are you implying that you don’t think I was good enough to meet her?”

  Marisol came around the table, picking up her wine glass along the way. She leaned back against it, as if she were about to have a conversation with an old friend, except her anger seethed like molten lava, eager to erupt.

  “You really don’t understand, do you?” she continued, looking at Aria, almost mocking an expression of pity—if it were possible for her to actually feel anything. “Declan was going to be at his brother’s home, and so were you. I was going there too, to get him…to hurt you—I don’t know—however it would have worked out to get what I wanted—which was him,” she said, shrugging her shoulders. “Lacey was in the road on a bike. She shouldn’t have been in the way.”

  She shrugged again, indifferently, and drained the glass, reaching behind her for the bottle to refill it.

  Pained at the image, Aria, choked on the words.

  “Y—you killed Lacey? Just left her there, in the road…to die? How could you do that? How could you get away with that? They would have seen the damage to the car,” Aria cried out, devastated at what was just revealed to her.

  “You really are pathetic…I do not understand what he sees in you!” Marisol chided. “Of course they saw the damage. I said it was a deer, you idiot. You know, sand girl,” she mocked, “I’m from the big city. Money talks. If you pay someone enough of it, they don’t ask questions.”

  She held her wine glass out, in a victorious posture.

  Tears flowed freely down Aria’s face. The physical suffering sheared through her brain, and the emotional ache ripped her heart apart. What made her agony more torturous was the pain Carter and Declan would suffer—if they ever were to learn the truth.

  Another afflicting thought occurred to her, and she tried to lean forward, fearful her distress would make her vomit.

  “What about the Vencedors’?” she asked, broken with sobs. “Did you hurt them, too?”

  Marisol broke into a smile, laughing with delight.

  “You’re worried about the Vencedors’?” she asked. “You REALLY are an imbecile!”

  “Did you…kill them, too?” Aria tearfully asked.

  Marisol couldn’t stop smiling for the amusement she was enjoying.

  “This is just too damn good!” she said.

  Turning her back to Aria, she happily walked back to her makeshift torture station.

  “I’ll give you this, Aria. You can be amusing.” She clucked. “You don’t have to be worried about the V
encedors’, dear.”

  She came closer to her with yet another tool, this one looking like a large pair of nippers, making Aria’s heart race with panic.

  “You see,” Marisol said, as she positioned herself near Aria’s ear to whisper into it. “I am the Vencedor. It mean’s winner.”

  She moved back to face Aria, wanting to get the full impact of her reaction.

  “In other words,” she said to the shocked woman, “I am The Vencedor Corporation. I have been the one buying all of your properties.”

  The crisp sensation of ice settled throughout Aria’s body, effectively destroying what little composure remained.

  Marisol was enjoying the physical torture, but this…well, this reaction was priceless. She couldn’t help but gloat.

  “Yes—Me,” she said, raising her arms in emphasis. “I did ALL of this!”

  Her boastful victory resonated through the entire house. Marisol had finally gotten Aria right where she wanted her. She arrogantly glared at her bleeding, bruised, and swollen face and couldn’t help but add salt to her wounds.

  Smugly, she held the nippers in her hand, but before she inflicted more torture to Aria’s body, she couldn’t help but maliciously ask…

  “How does that feel, bitch?”

  Marchelle felt the tears. Although she couldn’t speak it well, she understood more English than Marisol gave her credit for, and what she comprehended broke her heart.

  I didn’t know I hit a person…a woman! We were both in the car! I saw a woman, but I also saw an animal. Marian—Marisol told me it was a deer, and to keep driving. If I had known it was a person, I would have asked to stop—even if she became angry.

  She kept pacing.

  What to do…what to do…what to do? Nothing was going to bring back that woman. This was terrible. She destroyed a family. What if the woman had only been hurt? She could have taken her to a hospital! Oh, and her poor husband? Now he had no wife! Madre de dios! It was all her fault! I have to make this right! I have to make this right!

  She knew that Marisol couldn’t hear her if she drove away. She had music playing upstairs and Marisol didn’t pay attention to anything Marchelle was doing unless she wanted her for something. She had to take a chance. She had to go. It was the right thing to do.

  Quietly, she snuck out the lower level door.

  I have to find that man. I have to tell him what happened. He was always with the other man that Marisol liked. I have to tell him it was an accident. I have to tell him I’m sorry!

  “What did you say?” He felt the blood draining from his head upon hearing Paige’s words.

  “Declan, what’s wrong?” Paige asked, concerned. She immediately knew that she had said something to cause him alarm.

  His voice became more intense with each word he spoke. Carter and Blake were also giving her their full attention. Only moments before her arrival their discussion was of the failed attempt Declan had at gaining information connecting Marisol to Ms. Vencedor. This chilling revelation gave the three men cause for alarm.

  “What do you mean, she went to meet with The Vencedor Corporation?” Declan asked, as fear began to set in. “A dinner meeting? Somewhere public?”

  He could only hope.

  Paige felt all eyes in the room turn to her, and all were filled with panic.

  “It’s a company,” she said, innocently, “The Vencedor Corporation. They’ve been purchasing many of Aria’s remodels. Most of the paperwork has been done through an attorney to me, but the attorney was out of town today,” she informed him, still uneasy with the looks they were giving her. “The attorney—Mr. Dietz—his office left a message that some tools were left at one of the houses. They wanted Aria to get them tonight. They said someone would be moving in tomorrow. I picked up the message at my office and gave it to her before stopping here.”

  Feeling the tension, she turned to Carter.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  Ignoring the question, Carter jumped into action as Declan fished for his car keys.

  “What’s the address of the house?” he asked her.

  Paige was stunned at everyone moving so quickly.

  Blake grabbed his cell as he turned to Carter.

  “Who do you want me to call? State Police?” he asked.

  Paige, dumbstruck at the sudden flurry of activity, hadn’t answered Declan’s question.

  “Paige! The address! Where is she?!” he repeated.

  “I don’t know,” she said blankly. “What’s wrong? What’s happened?”

  Taking her arm, he tightened it to impress the urgency of what he needed her to do, and became forceful.

  “Find out the address! Now!” he ordered.

  Visibly becoming upset, Paige pushed him away from her.

  “I don’t know the address, Declan. The call came into my office. I didn’t even look at the message!” she explained. “I just handed it to her. Mr. Dietz closed on three houses this month for Vencedor. The office is closed or I’d call to get the address. It could be any one of them.”

  He shoved her briefcase toward her.

  “Look in there,” he said. “Think! Do you think you can find any information in there?”

  She closed her eyes for a moment in an attempt to concentrate amongst the chaos. Once she reopened them, she averted her eyes from the scrambling men to her bag where she saw her appointment book.

  “I think I have them!” she shouted, as she systematically rifled through the pages.

  Writing as quickly as she could, she handed him three addresses.

  “Please tell me what’s happening,” she pleaded. “Is Aria okay?”

  Declan ripped the page in three sections.

  “Call the police and go to the address,” he said to Blake as he handed him a piece of the paper. “I’ll go to this one.”

  He ripped the remainder in two, and gave another piece to Carter.

  “Whoever gets to her, call the other two,” he instructed, as all three men prepared to leave.

  Making their way to the door, Paige stood frustrated. She angrily raised her voice.

  “Will someone please tell me what’s going on?!” she asked, frustrated.

  She saw a look of murder come over Declan. His expression frightened her, and at that moment, she knew that Aria was in danger. He answered her, barely able to say the acrid words;

  “Vencedor is Marisol…”

  As the pain and shock of her most recent infliction faded away, and her reasoning returned, Aria was unsure if she’d survive. Several hours had now passed, of that she was certain. If Marisol had inflicted this amount of damage to her in so short a time, she was certain to be dead by morning. What little hope she had of survival remained in engaging Marisol. It might distract her somehow, buying precious time.

  Knowing that Marisol was her own favorite topic of conversation, she used that as an attempt to throw her off her mission.

  “Why would you say that Declan humiliated you?” she asked, almost incoherent, her voice rough like sandpaper. “I know he likes you,” she said, feeding Marisol’s need for flattery. “I saw him sitting with you. I even saw him taking your side in the argument after Lacey’s benefit.”

  Aria could tell she was getting Marisol’s attention. Although the pain was unbearable, she tried to continue speaking.

  “You should be nice to him, Marisol. Don’t you think that he’s been through enough?” she asked, trying to gain some support for Declan.

  It was a desperate attempt to coax Marisol to come out of her delusional train of thought, give her a topic she liked—Declan—but the desired effect was a bit too effective.

  Marisol broke into a maniacal rage.

  “Enough? Enough?!”

  Scathingly, she spat the words contemptuously in Aria’s direction, tossing her head back, shouting the words toward heaven. She regained composure long enough to cover the room in quickly measured footsteps until she was within inches of Aria.

  “There
will never be enough heartache to satisfy me where you and he are concerned, Aria!”

  She pulled Aria’s head back, forcing her to face her.

  “You came out of nowhere and disrupted my life! You turned him against me! Do you understand how you’ve inconvenienced me? My life! The life I created! No one is allowed to do that and get away with it. NO ONE!”

  Moving a razor blade back and forth, amused, in front of Aria’s face, she mocked with each word, and threatened with each motion.

  “You have no idea what I would do to someone who would take anything that belongs to me, do you?” she sneered. “You think that I’m just some airhead model who does what they tell her to do, stands where they tell her to stand, wears what they tell her to wear…”

  She moved her hands in a deliberate motion above her head as if to indicate who they were and what they were telling her, and she was moving away from Aria. Aria needed to keep her talking.

  Just then, Marisol sharply turned toward her.

  “You…YOU underestimated me!” she attacked.

  Aria tried to keep her breathing on an even keel. She thought that if she appeared calm Marisol would quiet down. It took every ounce of energy to create the illusion that she was in control of her emotions, which she most certainly wasn’t. Aria had to focus and stay calm—and she turned her thoughts to Declan to accomplish that.

  Reminding herself that he went through months of hell and pain—alone—she used him as inspiration. She took it second by second, minute by minute. If she could survive one minute, then she could survive another. If she could survive one hour, then she could survive another…

  “No, Marisol. You’re wrong,” Aria rasped peacefully. “The one thing I’ve never done is underestimate you; quite the contrary.”

  She smirked in arrogance, finding inner strength welling up inside, making her bold. If she were going to die, at least she’d go out being the woman he’d helped her become—STRONG.

  “Actually, Marisol,” Aria painfully opened her mouth as far as she could, ensuring she’d be better understood, “I think you’re cold and calculating—and I believe you’re cunning.”