I slip off the stilettos and abandon them in mulch, turning back the way I came, running, not questioning whether it’s still there or what I’m going to do with it. I need that gun. Without it I’m the girl watching from the closet, the girl who finds Lucien’s body too late to do anything, the girl too shocked by photographs of her own blood’s crimes to do anything more than cry. I need that gun.
The front door is locked. I type in the nine-digit security code, hoping Papi hasn’t changed it again. The door clicks, and I slip inside the darkened front entrance. I’m home. But I don’t have time to stand still and feel it. I hurry down the hall to Papi’s office, head down so I don’t see the artwork welcoming me from the walls. Those paintings will not have changed either, and I don’t want to see them right now.
Reaching Papi’s office, I flip on the lights and go straight for the skinny top drawer. The key is there like I knew it would be, and it slides into the hole in the bottom right drawer. I open it and there the gun is, waiting for me.
I know nothing about guns. But that seems less important than the sureness in my gut that I can’t be the coward again. I wrap my fingers around it, surprised by the weight, the solidity. It’s cool and smooth like a piano key. Smiles gleam up at me from the picture frames on Papi’s desk—my sisters and me.
I leave the way I came, but I’m running faster now. It would be quicker to go through the house, but I don’t know who’s hanging around keeping watch, or what I’d do if they tried to stop me. The trek back around the statues and the palms and the flowering wisteria feels different now that I’m gripping the gun. I’m solid. I’m steel.
I slow once I can hear Papi’s voice again. It’s biting the salt-rich wind as I push the gate open, but the rhythm is off. I hear it as I put my foot on that first step up to the deck. I’m three steps up when the unnatural lilt make sense. Terrible sense.
English.
I freeze. The gun feels slippery, so I try to choke up on it, holding the barrel with my sweaty left hand, sliding my right farther up the grip. All of Papi’s employees speak Spanish.
I take another step, and the words become real.
“. . . not like you thought, is it? Playing the game?” He laughs. It’s the same laugh I’ve always known, not a villainous cackle, but the resonant boom that echoes in my memories. How many times have I made Papi laugh like that?
“The ankle, you see,” he says, “I had no choice. . . .”
Below us a wave crashes, swallowing the rest. I strain, but he’s too far away, probably closer to where the deck wraps around the other side of the house.
“. . . you even know much seven and a half tons is worth?”
Mumbling. Too soft to hear. I inch forward, heart pounding. If I turn the corner, I may be visible. But maybe it’s too dark, and maybe they won’t be looking this way. I look down at the gun and realize suddenly why I’m holding it. I’m going to point it at someone.
Papi laughs, this time bitterly. “One hundred eighty million dollars.”
One hundred eighty million. Emilio thought fifty-five. That’s more than triple.
“So the ankle was just a start,” Papi continues. “We’ll get to the other one too, but why not spread them out? Let’s do an arm first. Fernando?”
I step around the corner just as a crack and a scream ring out. The crack is crisp and hollow, and the scream . . . It’s unearthly. It’s split—guttural and high-pitched at the same time, a groan and a shriek woven together in a way that makes my stomach fall and not stop falling.
The visual takes longer to register. It’s too dark. The torches on the far side are lit where the figures are clustered, and only faces are lit. Fernando’s hawkish profile towers over something slumped, something he’s holding up but not entirely because it’s just shoulders, a doubled-over mass. Jose is propping the slumped thing from the other side, or I assume it’s Jose from the neckless build. Papi’s the only one whose whole face is visible. He’s sitting, facing the others, florid jowls shining red and flickering under the torchlight. He could see me if he looked a little to the left, but he doesn’t. He glares at the slumped figure as it lifts its blond head.
Blond. So blond the torchlight can’t paint it with the same bloodred brush. The hair glows white when the head turns from side to side, writhing in pain.
“Stop!” I scream.
They all turn. All of them but Marcel, who curls into himself again, his beautiful hair disappearing as he crumples to the ground.
Courage swirls and centers somewhere inside of me, and now it’s my arm jutting, my hand clutching the gun, my finger curled around the trigger.
They stare.
I didn’t see their guns appear, but they’re out now. Fernando’s is pointing at me. So is Jose’s. So is Papi’s.
“Stop!” I scream again, stepping forward, and I see their faces change as they realize who I am.
Papi’s arm relaxes. “Put your guns down,” he says.
Fernando hesitates.
“It’s Valentina,” Papi barks at him.
Valentina.
Fernando tucks his gun into his pants. Jose drops his arm to his side, but keeps his eyes trained on the barrel of my gun, his fingers wrapped around his weapon.
“Welcome home,” Papi calls, placing his gun on the table with a satisfying clunk.
“What are you doing to him?” I sob.
He narrows his eyes and looks from Marcel, to me, to my gun, to Marcel, connecting the fractured pieces. “Tell me you didn’t have anything to do with this,” he says to me.
“Let him go.”
He says nothing.
“Let him go.”
“Valentina,” he says.
I hear it now. Not just the indulgence, but the placation. I thought I was his favorite, that he thought I was the smartest, the most worthy of his attention. He made me think it with that same tone, but now it’s clear it was only a way to control me. Flattery. “Put the gun down.”
“No.”
Jose twitches, and his weapon glimmers at his side.
Fernando bends over and picks up Marcel by the shoulder. Marcel groans, and my heart groans with him. He lifts his face to me for the first time, but only for a second. It’s long enough to see the blood pouring from his nose, both eyes swollen nearly shut. I wouldn’t know him if it weren’t for his hair.
I gasp, and he drops his head again. My finger feels slippery against the trigger. I stretch my hand, tighten my grip.
“Put the gun down,” Papi repeats gently. That soothing tone says so much. I’m only a child to be pacified.
I can’t think. Marcel’s swollen eyes and blood-painted chin are all I can see. I point the gun at Papi.
“You don’t even know how to hold it,” he says. “Have you ever shot a gun?”
I haven’t. He knows it. What am I doing? The answers have been coming to me all night as I stumble along, because I couldn’t plan this, or I didn’t want to plan this. It’s been better to feel like fate was pushing me through, but now I see myself through their eyes. I’m ridiculous. I’m standing before three armed killers who think I’m harmless, pointing a gun at Papi’s head like I could pull the trigger.
“It’s not a toy,” he says.
“And I’m not a child. Let him go.”
“Put the gun down.” He holds out his hand and takes a few steps toward me. Those steps do something. They stir the whirlwind of courage and fury swirling inside me again. I’m stronger than he thinks I am.
Smarter.
“No.” I turn my hand, bend my elbow, and bring the tip of the gun to my temple. The sensation of its tip against my skin makes me shiver. It’s so cold.
Papi freezes, mouth open. “Is it loaded? Put it down.”
“Let him go.”
He shakes his head. “This isn’t funny. Put it down.”
“I said let him go! You don’t think I’ll pull the trigger?” My voice is shrill. I sound like someone else. “You’re going to kill him, and
if you kill him, I don’t want to live anymore.”
He looks at Marcel’s bent and bloodied figure. “But you and Emilio—”
“Don’t talk to me about Emilio!” I shout.
“But what happens to this fool has nothing to do with you or any—”
“Yes, it does! Setting fire to the yacht was my idea—I made him do it!”
Papi swears, runs both hands through his hair. He’s sweating. “What are you saying? No, what were you thinking?”
“I was thinking you deserve to lose everything. And I was thinking about the narc.”
“What?” he growls.
“The narc. You’ve got an undercover agent working for you.”
He looks from me to Marcel, then back at me again. “Who?”
“Let him go, and I’ll tell you,” I say, and tighten my grip on the gun. I lift my wrist so it’s level with my temple again. Still pressed against my skin, it doesn’t feel cool anymore. It’s marble smooth.
Papi turns to Fernando and nods. Fernando looks disappointed but shoves Marcel to the ground. Marcel groans, but he doesn’t get up. He has to get up.
“Marcel,” I call.
“Tell me about the narc,” Papi coaxes.
“Not yet. Marcel,” I say, sternly this time. “Get up.” I don’t ask him if he can even walk. He has to get up.
Marcel pushes himself up with one arm, then groans as he gets his left leg underneath him and stands. He looks like a marionette, grimace painted on with blood. His left foot hangs at an odd angle, and his left arm cradles his right against his body. And his face. I can’t look at his face. “Go,” I say. “There’s a car in the front. I left the keys on the seat. Go and don’t stop.”
I try not to watch him as he hobbles and lurches across the deck toward the gate, but I can’t look away. He’s crooked, gasping and wincing with every step. It’s my fault. I should never have told him the truth about Lucien’s death, never have let him bring me to Miami at all. And Papi—I pull my focus from Marcel’s receding figure back to my father—Papi belongs in jail. No, Papi belongs in hell.
Something’s different.
It takes me a moment to realize what’s changed while I watched Marcel go. Fernando’s hand is at his belt, gripping his weapon.
“Drop it!” I scream, jerking the gun at my temple. “Papi, make him! I’ll do it!”
Papi holds his hand up to Fernando. Fernando scowls and puts his gun on the table next to Papi’s.
“Now walk away from them,” I order. “All three of you. Over there, by the pool.”
They obey. Side by side, unarmed, Papi and his goons stand in a row, defenseless because of me. “So you want to know who your narc is?”
Papi nods.
“First, tell me about my mother.”
He blinks. A gust of wind tousles his hair, and for a moment he looks much younger. “What about her? You know everything.”
“I know the things that you learn from photo albums and home movies. I don’t know the important things. I don’t know why she tried to leave you. I don’t know how you killed her.”
He doesn’t flinch. “Stop this, Valentina. Who’s the narc?”
“How did you kill her?”
He takes a step toward me.
“You don’t think I’ll do it now?” I scream. “Now that I know you murdered my mother? Step back and tell me how you did it!”
He moves back but doesn’t say a word.
I’m crying. I want to wipe my cheeks, but I can’t risk losing my balance or my grip on the gun, so I push on. “He said they identified the body with dental records. Does that mean fire?”
“Who said that?” he asks.
“Does that mean fire?”
“Who told you that! The narc—is Emilio the narc?”
“Does that mean fire?” I scream.
He nods.
I open my mouth, but before I can speak or scream, a strong, hot gust of wind blasts into me and a shudder rolls through me at the same time. Am I dying? The beating is so loud—my heart must be near bursting—but then I realize it’s too fast to be my heart.
A white light explodes over me and I gasp, but I don’t drop my gun. Its warm, slippery body is still heavy in my hand. The thumping takes on a mechanical rhythm, the angry beat of steel shredding holes in the smoky sky. Red hair whips my face, blinding me. With my free hand I pull the tangle of it back and force myself to turn toward the light.
A megaphoned voice blares down at me, but the words don’t come together to make sense. The pulsing is too forceful. But the words repeat and repeat until I do hear. “This is the United States Coast Guard! Drop your weapons and put your hands in the air!”
Coast guard. I do understand. The blinding light above me—that’s a helicopter. The fading light behind me, the one without a gun or a prayer—that’s Papi.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
THIRTY-FIVE
“Let’s try this again.”
I rub my tongue against the roof of my mouth. It’s leathery. Twice scalded, I’m not attempting to drink my coffee anymore. I keep my hands curled around the hot cup, soaking in heat that way instead. “Can you turn down the AC?”
The beefy man across from me—Pearson, I think—snaps his hairy fingers at the younger, skinnier one by the door, who jumps up and leaves, presumably to adjust the temperature.
“Who started the fire?” Pearson asks.
“I did.”
He gives me a startled glance and scribbles something on his notepad.
In the several hours I’ve been at the station, it’s the first real thing I’ve said. It’s amazing how long you can stretch out asking for food, faking a few tears, asking for more food, faking a few more tears, and still have them believe you’re considering cooperating.
He licks his finger and turns to the next page in his curled-edged notepad. “Are you aware of what was on the yacht at the time you set the fire?”
“No. What was on the yacht?”
He studies me intently. I break his gaze after a few seconds to examine the nail polish that isn’t on my nails.
“Drugs. Do you know anything about your father’s professional dealings?”
I eye the mirrored wall to my left. It’s surprisingly predictable—just like a TV show. I imagine a team of detectives sitting on the other side, analyzing my responses, arguing about my body language. I wonder if Emilio’s with them. I look back to Pearson. “He sells art.”
Pearson sighs and scratches the back of his thinning hair. His role here is the one of disappointed father figure. The detective before him—Ferreira, I think—he played the intimidating jerk. Maybe if I hold out long enough, they’ll send in a good-looking young guy to smile at me and convince me to tell him all my secrets. As if I’d fall for that now.
Pearson gives me sad eyes and shrugs. “You’re telling me you know nothing about the drugs.”
“Drugs?” I give him another blank stare. He has wrinkles across his forehead. I hold my eyes there.
“You’re either a part of helping us piece this together, or you’re not. Obstruction of justice in a case of this size—that’s not something you want to mess around with.”
“You said I’m not being charged with anything.”
“I said you aren’t being charged with anything yet.” He leans back, lacing his fingers behind his head, showing off the yellowed armpits of his dress shirt.
“I’m a minor, you know.”
“You think that means you can’t be charged with obstruction?”
“I think it means I can demand to see my lawyer, right?”
“Is that what you’re doing?”
The door swings open and the skinny one walks back in. He nudges his glasses farther up his sunburned nose and sits in the chair closest to the mirror. The AC vent is still blasting cold air at me.
“No,”
I say.
“So then. The fire. We have a report from an eyewitness saying they saw a young male sneaking onto the yacht.”
“Okay, so maybe I didn’t set the fire.”
“Tell me who did.”
“Why would you assume that I know?”
He pauses. “This investigation is pretty big. There’s a huge team of people who’ve been working on it, spanning several different agencies, and apparently one of the FBI agents seems to think you do know who set that fire.”
I turn to stare at the mirror. It’s large, covering nearly the entire wall, but I let my eyes travel over it slowly, smiling as I go. “I don’t think your FBI agent really wants to get my whole story.”
Pearson frowns and scratches a flaky patch between his eyebrows. “Let’s move on to something else. Do you want to tell me why you were holding a gun to your head when the coast guard arrived at your father’s house?”
“No. Is pretending to threaten to kill yourself a crime?”
“Pretending? You’re claiming you aren’t suicidal?”
“I’m definitely not suicidal. I promise.”
He looks heavenward, a prayer for patience passing between his eyeballs and the ceiling. He plays the part so well. I bet he has a teenage daughter. Maybe several.
“I was mad at my father,” I say.
“Why?”
“I don’t know. For taking away my credit card?”
He mutters something under his breath I don’t catch, then pushes back his chair, making an ugly scraping sound. “What was that?” I ask.
“I said damn lucky.”
Lucky. Too much. I’m suddenly too tired and the game is too taxing. I want them to leave me alone so I can stop pretending to be an idiot and curl into a ball on my own bed and cry. “I don’t feel very lucky,” I mumble.
“And why is that?”
“According to you guys, my father is going to spend the rest of his life in prison, and I get to walk around with that shame of who he is for the rest of my life. What’s lucky about that?”
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