by Rebecca Shea
Bound by Lies
Copyright ©2015 Rebecca Shea Author, LLC
All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, any place, events, or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and storylines are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.
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Cover design by: Regina Wamba, Mae I Design
Edited by: Beth Lynne, Hercules Editing and Megan Hand
Formatted by: Angela McLaurin, Fictional Formats
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Epilogue
To my family for always believing in me and encouraging me on this journey, and for allowing the voices in my head to make their way into our lives. I know it’s not easy sharing me with fictional characters. Thank you for allowing me to live my dreams. I love you more than you’ll ever know.
DEATH.
My eyes snap open, and I struggle to sit up and catch my breath. I’m suffocating in my reality. I tremble and a loud gasp finally comes from me; the sound of me breathing—or rather, trying to breathe. I finally feel my lungs expand, bringing in the cool air of the dark bedroom. My chest is tight as I exhale, and I try to breathe again, but it’s the pressure of my heart constricting along with my lungs that causes me such immense pain.
The memory is on a constant loop like a train wreck. There is no way to bury the images. The gun pressed to his head. The yelling. The slow pull of the trigger. The blood.
“Alex!” I scream his name over and over, willing him to live. “Keep your eyes open!” I yell, reaching for his outstretched hand. The cool tile beneath me is slippery with his blood. I slip and slide in the warm liquid as I try to reach him. “Alex,” I mumble, my voice hoarse from yelling. I struggle, trying to make my way to him. The sounds of more yelling and gunfire play in the background like a television show. Except this isn’t TV… this is really happening.
Danger. Death. All of it hangs in the air around me, except I’m not afraid of dying. I’m afraid to live without Alex. Tight arms pull at my waist, tugging me further away from Alex’s outstretched hand. All I see are Alex’s amber eyes begging me not to leave him, pleading with me as his eyelids begin to slowly close. My name falls from his lips, barely a whisper as he reaches for me one last time. And then, nothing. I see nothing but black.
I gasp again, my breaths coming heavy and fast as I hear the final gunshot, but I see nothing. I feel pain in my head, but I’m covered in safety.
Sam.
I struggle to push him off of me so that I can get to Alex, but his grasp is too tight. When I’m finally free, I see him—Antonio. He pulls the trigger, and I watch the final bullet pummel into Alex’s chest before Antonio turns to me.
Fear.
Pure evil dances in his dark brown eyes, and hate flashes across the light brown skin of his face as he looks down on me, his gun pointed at my head. As I stare at the barrel of the gun, images of the things I used to fear flash through my mind, but nothing compares to the moment you know you’re going to die… and then hearing the gunshot before everything goes black again.
Pain.
That’s all I’m capable of feeling in this moment. My lungs burn. My heart aches. My head screams.
Physical.
Mental.
Emotional.
Pain.
That’s all I feel.
I SIT WITH my back pressed against the headboard of Sam’s bed, my knees pulled tightly to my chest. “Why” is the question that haunts me—has been haunting me all night.
Why Alex? Why me? Why?
My arms are wrapped tightly around my legs in hopes that this uncontrollable shaking that has racked my body for the last twelve hours will stop. Twelve hours since I’ve seen him. Twelve hours since he left me. He promised he’d never leave me.
Promises. I don’t believe in promises. Every promise ever made to me has been broken.
I roll my neck as my muscles ache and scream at me. It seems when you can’t shut off your mind, your body pays the price. Except this is nothing. Alex paid the price—with his life.
All I can see is blood. Blood is everywhere. On his chest. On the floor. On me. Did you know that blood smells? In large amounts, blood has a metallic smell to it. I’ll never forget that smell. Twice in the last six months, I’ve knelt in the blood of people I love, begging them not to leave me. Twice that metallic smell has hung heavy in the air around me. And the images, scents, and sounds never leave you once you’ve experienced them. The smell, mostly, is something I’ll never forget—ever.
I’ve barely even noticed that I’m half-naked. Only in a bra and pair of panties as my shorts and tank top lay in a pile on the floor, covered in Alex’s blood. My skin is caked with it, dark crimson and brown. It’s disgusting and I must look terrifying, but right now, I’m not ready to wash it off.
It’s all I have left of him.
My mind continues to play like a broken record, repeating everything that happened in slow motion. Andres walking through the front door of Alex’s condo, heads turning, guns pointing, and then, without warning, gunfire.
I plug my ears to block out the sound of the gunshots and the screaming in my head. It amazes me how the memory not only remembers just sights, but sounds and smells also. I can still hear the gunshots ring out. I can still smell the gunpowder.
My fingers flit around the base of my throat, searching for the gold compass necklace that Alex gave me, the only thing that’ll comfort me right now. But it’s gone. Tears sting my eyes as my hand rests in the hollow where the necklace should be. I toss my head back and hit the edge of the headboard while choking back the impending tears. My head is pounding with a terrible headache that throbs from my temples down to the base of my skull. It’s most likely a concussion from hitting my head on the tile floor when Sam threw himself on top of me as the gunfire rang out.
“Em,” Sam’s voice calls to me quietly from the doorway. He’s standing with both arms raised above his head and he holds on to the doorframe. He’s changed out of his grey suit pants and white dress shirt that were also covered in blood, and now he’s wearing a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt.
I glance at him out of the corner of my eye but keep my head dropped back against the headboard. I’m numb, unable to feel anything at the moment.
“Em, come on. We need to g
et you cleaned up.” He offers me a sympathetic smile because that’s Sam. Safe, caring, concerned. I always told myself he was safe where Alex was dangerous, but I shake those thoughts aside as Sam moves toward me, his feet shuffling softly against the wood floor as he sits down on the edge of the bed. Concern clouds his dark eyes. “I should’ve taken you to the hospital,” he says quietly, resting his hand on my forearm. “We need to have your head looked at.” He brushes his fingertips across my temple, pushing back a strand of hair that was stuck to my face. Safe. His touch is safe.
“I don’t have insurance, and I can’t afford it. I’ll be fine,” I mutter through dry lips. My mouth is also dry, and I try to swallow but can’t.
He sighs. “You’re still shaking. I think you’re in shock. Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up, and I’m taking you to the ER.” He tugs at my arm, my muscles are stiff as Sam begins lifting me from the bed. Listlessly, I rest my head against his shoulder and wrap my arms around his neck as he carries me to the en suite bathroom.
Safe. I should feel safe in his arms, but the only arms I want around me are Alex’s.
“Hold on to the counter,” he says gently as he sets me down and my toes touch the cold tile floor. “Bath or shower?” He pulls an oversized towel down from the towel rack and rests it on the edge of the tub.
“Bath,” I answer him, emotionless.
Sam turns on the faucet in the large bathtub and plugs the drain. Reaching under the bathroom sink, he pulls a box of Epsom salt and sprinkles it in. “For your muscles,” he says as he closes the box and puts it away. Then he pulls out another bottle and squirts some purple liquid in the running water, bubbles beginning to fill the tub. “Lavender mint.” He runs the bottle under his nose before closing it. “Ex-girlfriend,” he mumbles and puts the bottle back under the sink. Tossing a sponge into the sudsy water, he stands back with his hands on his hips. “You going to be okay to get yourself undressed and all?”
“Yeah.” I nod and rub the back of my head. I look at Alex’s blood on my hands and then back to Sam.
“Okay, if you need anything, just holler. I’ll be in the living room returning a few phone calls.”
He closes the door behind him, and I catch a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror attached to the back of the door. With all the dried blood on me, I look like I was murdered, which isn’t far from the truth. A piece of me died right alongside Alex. Black mascara caked under my eyes, my pale skin, and wild hair only add to the horrifying picture.
Lifting my hands, I turn them over and inspect them. Alex’s blood. Without warning, tears spill from my eyes and I fall to my knees as I think of Alex bleeding on the floor of his condo. Loud, bellowing cries escape me as I crawl to the toilet, lifting the lid to throw up. My stomach clenches again and again, and I gasp for breath once the contents of my stomach are gone.
“Jesus Christ!” The bathroom door flies open, and Sam runs over to me. On his knees next to me, he grabs me by the shoulders and tilts my head so he can look me over. His fingers wipe tears that have pooled under my eyes. I should hate his touch, but I don’t. “What happened, Em?”
I reach out and press down on the toilet handle, flushing it, and close the lid. Leaning back against the cool bathroom wall, I look Sam in the eyes. His fingers brush my long hair behind my ears. Safe. Sam is safe, I keep telling myself.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Then I open them and look down at myself. I should feel vulnerable, almost naked and covered in blood, but I don’t. I hold my hands out to Sam and he looks at them, sympathy falling across his face.
“Em, come on. We need to get you cleaned up. I’m really worried about you. I know you have a concussion and now, with the vomiting, I think it’s serious.” He pulls me up by my elbows, and I squeeze his hands tighter. He’s so strong and confident, but I can see the fear and the sadness in his eyes. He’s buried it, because that’s what he does. He’s all business. Meanwhile, you can read me like a book. I’m a hot mess. Everything I’ve ever felt or seen can be easily seen on the outside.
Carefully, he guides me by the shoulders and unclasps my bra, sliding the straps down my arms, where it falls to the floor. Normally, I’d be embarrassed that Sam is seeing me naked, but right now, I don’t even care. His hands fall from my shoulders, down my back, and to the waistband of my panties. Tugging them, he pulls them down and taps my ankle for me to lift my foot. He does the same with my other leg.
With his hands back on my shoulders, he guides me to the bathtub. “Step in carefully; it’s slippery,” he says, not releasing my shoulders until I’m safely in the tub. I sink into the warm water and rest my head back on the edge. The hot water pricks at my skin almost painfully. Sam pulls a small hand towel off the towel rack and rolls it up. “Lift your head.” When I lean forward, he slips the rolled towel behind my neck. “I’ll be back in just a minute. Just relax,” he says, slipping through the door again. This time, he leaves it open.
I close my eyes and let the warm water try to soothe me. I stretch my legs and feel the muscles begin to slowly relax. I inhale deeply, trying to get my mind to mimic my legs. Relax, I tell myself.
“Here.” Sam’s voice pulls me from the sounds of my deep breathing, and I open my eyes. He’s holding out a glass of ice water. “You can brush your teeth when you’re done, but I thought you might want some water.”
I take the glass from him and sip the cool, refreshing liquid. Only the slight bones of my shoulders peek out of the bubbly water and the ends of my long hair hang heavily around my shoulders.
Sam pulls out the floating sponge and squeezes it. Taking the bottle of body wash, he squirts some onto the sponge, then sits on the edge of the tub and squeezes the sponge until it bubbles. “Give me your arm.” He taps my left shoulder. Lifting my arm from the water, he begins running the soft sponge over my skin in small circles, starting at my shoulder, down my arm, and lifting to do the underside and my armpit. He takes his time with my hand and cleans my fingers methodically, scrubbing the cuticles to remove all traces of Alex’s blood. Tears pool in my eyes as I watch all that I have left of Alex disappear in the sponge. He repeats this same process on my right arm, then he scrubs my neck and back.
“Sam, my necklace is gone.” My voice breaks with emotion.
“What necklace?” His face twists in confusion.
“The one Alex gave me. It was a compass. I think it fell off at the condo.”
“It’s probably in evidence. I’ll see if the crime scene technicians found it.”
“I need that necklace, Sam.” Tears spill from my eyes. “It’s all I have left.”
He swallows hard. With a curt nod, he pulls the removable showerhead off the wall and turns on the water, wetting my hair and letting the water run down my face. He’s gentle and caring and quiet. Squirting a small amount of shampoo into the palm of his hand, he lathers it and begins rubbing it into my scalp. As he washes the blood of his brother away, I wonder what he’s thinking and what he’s feeling, except I’m too afraid to ask. My head falls back as his fingers begin to slowly massage me, releasing some of the tension and easing my headache. Turning on the handheld showerhead again, he rinses the shampoo from my hair and hands it to me before reaching down between my feet and pulling the drain plug.
“I loved him,” I say, my voice quivering with emotion. I’m not sure why I feel the need to tell Sam. Maybe because it’s his brother. Maybe because I feel vulnerable with him taking care of me right now. But I need Sam to know how I feel for Alex; I mean, “felt.” My stomach sinks when I speak of him in the past.
He nods and sits on the edge of the tub. Finally, he stands. “Rinse off. I’ll be just outside the door if you need me.”
I close my eyes when I glance down at the water. It’s no longer clear. It’s turned pink from the blood on my hands… on my body. Alex’s blood. I use the showerhead to rinse the remaining suds off my body. Turning the handle, I shut off the water and wrap myself in the large towel that Sam left on
the edge of the tub, pulling down another towel to hand dry my hair.
“You okay in there?”
“Yeah, I’m good,” I lie. I’ll never be the same, I think to myself. Everyone close to me dies.
When the doorbell rings, I hear Sam leave and close the bedroom door behind him, then I move quickly into the room and slip into a clean bra and panties, and pull a gray tank top over my head. My cut-off jean shorts are on the top of my pile of clean clothes, and I step into those.
There’s a knock on the door and it opens slowly. Sam looks at me and hesitates before finally speaking. “Em, you have to give a statement. I’ve put them off for almost twelve hours, but they’re here and really need to get this done. I’ve told them to make it fast, then I’m taking you to the hospital.”
I nod and take a deep breath. A statement. For a fleeting moment, I contemplate bolting. Sliding out the window and running away, away from the police, away from the bloodshed, away from my reality. I almost chuckle as I realize that was what I did in Illinois and it led me here. But this is my opportunity to get justice for Alex, for my mom. I take a deep breath and nod.
“It won’t take long; just tell them everything you know and remember. Just be honest.”
“Okay,” I say weakly.
Swallowing hard, I pad down the hallway to the living room and take a seat on the leather couch. There are two men in chairs across the sofa table from me, both wearing suits and holding leather portfolios with notepads in them.
“Emilia Adams?” the old bald one asks as I pull a pillow into my lap for a measure of comfort, although nothing can really offer me comfort right now.
“Yes, I’m Emilia Adams,” I exhale a long breath.
“I’m Special Agent Jonathon DeMartini with the ATF, and this is Special Agent Jorge SanFilipe with the DEA. We’re going to need to get your statement about what happened last night at the residence of Alejandro Estrada.”
I hesitate and fake a stiff smile for the detectives. For the next hour, I’m pummeled with questions, many of which I can’t answer. When they begin to ask similar questions over and over, Sam steps in and politely ends the interview. Everyone stares at me as I twist my fingers nervously in my lap. A few hushed words are spoken, and then the men step into the kitchen. I hear Sam walking them out a moment later.
