Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 86768 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86768 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
“What?” he asks, walking us farther from the glass walls of the building to take shelter around the corner, out of the wind.
“Did you do it?”
“What are you talking about?”
“My uncle. Was it you?”
He stops, and for the first time in all the time I’ve known him, he is at a loss. Shocked even.
And I have my answer.
I try to pull free, but he only tugs me closer. “He drowned,” he says, voice different. Controlled. Low and dangerous.
“There was camera footage, Santos,” I tell him, because it doesn’t matter anymore, does it?
He waits, forehead furrowing.
“The gift someone sent, that muff? I thought it was you at first, but it wasn’t. And the muff wasn’t the gift. It was to hide a message someone wanted to send. A warning, maybe.” I’m not sure if I’m explaining it to him or trying to understand it myself.
“What are you talking about?”
“There was a photograph tucked inside it.”
“What?”
“It was a photo of you.” My voice breaks on a sob and it takes me a minute to continue. “A still captured on the security cameras my uncle had all around his house. It was you. You were there the night he died.”
His grip tightens on my arms as his jaw clenches with barely controlled emotion. He clearly never thought I’d find out, never thought anyone would.
“It’s not what you think,” he says.
“When you said you might leave things out, is this what you meant?” When I try to pull free, he tugs me to himself. “Let me go. Don’t touch me.”
“We need to get you inside. It’s too cold.”
I shake my head, but it doesn’t matter what I want. It’s never mattered what I wanted. Not when it comes to Santos Augustine.
Within moments, I’m half-walking, half being carried toward a staff entrance. Warmth immediately envelops me as the sound of dishes clattering and orders being called out overwhelms me. Santos keeps me close, my face buried against his side as we make our way to an elevator reserved for staff. As soon as the doors close and we’re alone, he pulls me back to look at me.
“Christ,” he mutters.
“What else have you lied about?”
“It’s not what you think. Give me a minute.”
The elevator doors slide open and we’re on our floor. There’s no guard at the door. He’s probably on break since no one’s up here.
Santos marches us to our apartment—can I call it ours?—and once we’re inside, he releases me. I take two hurried steps away as he drags both hands through his hair.
“You killed him,” I say.
He shakes his head and crosses the room toward me. I back up but I’m nowhere near as fast as him. He takes my arms, shakes me. “Where is it? Where is the photo?”
“You can’t hide from this, Santos.”
He releases me, mutters a string of curses, then digs his phone out of his pocket and types out a furious text.
I look around the room, not sure what I’m looking for but when I see a letter opener on the desk in the corner, I go for it.
“Why did you do it? Why kill my uncle? He was innocent. He never hurt anyone!”
“You didn’t know him like you thought.”
“I knew him!”
Santos looks at me, then at the letter opener in my hand. It’s sharp. Maybe not as sharp as a kitchen knife, but it’ll do some damage.
“Give me that, Madelena,” he says, eating the space between us, clearly not worried about me with my letter opener.
“Tell me why!”
“Give it to me. Now,” he says, words quieter as he’s closer, but no less threatening.
I slip behind the couch because I need to put distance between us. He’s bigger than me, faster than me, and he knows how to fight.
“What did I tell you just hours ago? What did I tell you about trust?”
I snort. “You wanted me to blindly trust you and you know what?” Tears blur my vision. “I am so fucking stupid, so desperate, that I wanted to.”
“You’re not stupid,” he says, seeming caught on that word. “Give me a minute to explain.”
“Desperate then. An easy target. Get back. Get away from me!” I tell him and turn the point of the knife to my own throat because he won’t care about getting hurt himself, but he will care if I hurt myself.
No. Care isn’t the right word. His plan will be disrupted if I hurt myself. He doesn’t care about me. I was a fool and an idiot to ever believe he might.
“Maddy.” He holds his hands up, palms to me. “Put it down.”
“I’m not Maddy to you. I already told you never to call me that!”
“What did I tell you about hurting what is mine?” he asks, changing tactics.
“I. Am. Not. Yours!” I push the edge of the blade into the tender spot at the center of my collarbones, feeling that familiar sharp pain of skin breaking, the warmth of blood streaking flesh.