by Elodie Colt
“Not much, other than she was married and got divorced. She never spoke about her past.”
“Who was her husband?”
“I never met him, and she never told me.” I sigh, my patience slowly dissolving. This guy’s wasting my time. “But I know she left a daughter behind.”
“Do you know her name?” I ask more out of boredom, but Isidro’s answer piques my interest.
“Leo. Leo Alvarez.”
Emilio’s and Javier’s eyes flicker in my direction. Didn’t the guy who died in my office a few hours ago say something about a man called Alvarez?
With a lift of my chin, I address Emilio who takes the hint and heads for the door to get to work. A girl with a Spanish heritage and the name Alvarez living in Florida shouldn’t be hard to find.
“Emilio,” I call out, and he stops turning to face me.
“Yes, boss?”
“Bring her to me. Unharmed.”
“Let’s go back to when your mother started to get worse,” Ada says in her usual gentle tone, adjusting the glasses on her nose and tilting her head as if this angle allows her a better analysis of my face.
I like Ada, but I hate the sessions. They always bring me back to a dark place.
Ada gives me time to bring my thoughts in order, twirling a pen between her fingers.
“My father started to come home in the middle of the night. Then, there were times he didn’t return for days.” I drop my head onto the backrest, eyes grazing over the floor-to-ceiling shelf stacked with psychology books. “My mother used to spend every free minute in the studio losing herself in her world of surrealism, but then she started to drink.” I remember her neatly arranged studio turning into a mess of dirty brushes, dried-out colors, and torn canvases within a couple of weeks.
Ada scribbles something on her notepad. “You said your mother left when you were fifteen. Correct?” I nod. “Tell me what happened that day.”
I close my eyes, unwillingly dragging my mind back to the past. I still remember drawing a breaking heart shattering to the floor, and how the pencil shook in my hand as I listened to my parents screaming at each other.
“I… I can’t do this anymore, Piero,” my mother whimpers, and I hear her sob as I press my ear against the door. “It destroys me.”
“Then don’t touch the stuff!” my father shouts back, and I cringe at his harsh voice.
“You know I can’t!”
“It’s not my fault you can’t keep your shit together, Sofia!”
I hear a sigh before my mother says with resolve, “This has to end. I’m going to leave with Leo.”
I pull my mind back to the present. My hands itch for a pencil, but I won’t draw in front of Ada. I can only imagine what conclusions she’d jump to if she saw my depressing drawings.
“She left without me,” I conclude in a beaten tone. My father had always been slightly detached, but from then on, I sensed him becoming more and more distant. I suppose with the woman he loved gone, he had no reason to stick around. His love for me could have never competed to the love he held for my mother. I could see it in his eyes whenever he looked at me—the disappointment, the regret, the wish it was her standing in front of him and not me. Not the child she always wanted to have, whereas he only ever wanted to have her. “It took me a long time to find out why.”
Ada tilts her head to the other side. “Tell me about it.”
So, I dive into the story of how everything went downhill in the first place. Until then, my father was doing business selling my mother’s paintings. At least, that’s what he made us believe.
One day, I found a trail of white powder leading from the house to the garage. Following it, I opened a wrapped-up painting hidden in a corner only to find pouches filled with the powder hidden within the frame. I was still young but old enough to recognize the substance as the same the eighth graders at school were sniffing in the restrooms.
Turned out my father had been dealing drugs for a long time. My mother found the stuff and got addicted herself. I still remember her mumbling weird things while restlessly prowling through her studio, wiping a finger under her nose all the time, and scratching her scalp until her hair was ruffled.
When it all became too much for her, she begged my father to quit. He didn’t. My mother feared I would tumble down the same road, so she decided to leave with me.
But my father had no intentions of letting her go. He threatened to bring her to trial and start a custody battle, one she would have lost for sure. Over the years, my father had built connections everywhere including a network of the best lawyers. He would have testified she was an addict, and that would have been the end of it.
That left my mother with two choices—stay or leave without me. She chose the latter, leaving her old life and her only daughter behind. Snuggling into my room that night, she bent over me and whispered into my ear, “I’ll come back, my love.”
And then she was gone. The only thing she took for some mysterious reason was one of the paintings in my room, one she’d given me as a birthday present.
I think my father always hoped she was going to come back, knowing she never wanted to leave without me in the first place. This was the only reason he didn’t kick me out after she shut the door behind her. I didn’t stay long, though, not after the ‘twenty-one-minutes’ incident.
I wonder if things would have gone differently if I’d kept my mouth shut and pretended not to know what kind of business my father conducted instead of facing him head-on, throwing a pouch of coke into his face and demanding answers. How my life would have continued if it hadn’t ended in a fight of screams and profanities. How everything would have turned out if he’d stayed instead of banging the door behind him to leave me in the hands of… him.
Ada watches me intently when I finish my story. “Did you ever go looking for her?”
“No,” I say, my tone quipped.
She squints her eyes at my cold undertone. “You don’t want her to come back?”
I cross my arms, shrugging. “She won’t come back.” I don’t allow myself the hope to see her again. I’ve hoped year after year, staring out the window and wishing a familiar mass of black, wavy hair came up the sidewalk, ready to take me with her.
Ada nods. “All right. I think that’s enough for today.” Thank God. Ada rises, wiping a hand over her pencil skirt. “Until next week, Leo.” I manage a half-smile, swinging my backpack over my shoulder and heading out for my next appointment.
~~~
The low buzzing of the needle drilling my skin is a comforting sound as I stare holes into the ceiling trying my best not to flinch every time Zach’s latex-gloved hand touches me.
“What does it mean?” Zach wants to know, referring to the words he’s branding onto my skin.
“It’s the name of a painting of a French artist,” I reply, clawing my fingers into the seat to remain still as the needle punctures my ribs.
Zach sighs dramatically before saying in his usual gay-ish tone that rises and drops like a siren, “Baby, I wish you’d let me put a few red roses around the letters.”
“Nope. This one stays color-free. Argh!” I howl as Zach moves the needle over already tattooed and raw skin.
“Sorry, darling. Just one… more…” he drawls, his tongue clamped between his teeth in concentration. “There you go, sweetie. It’s done.”
“Great.”
Eagerly, I rise from my torture bed and hurry over to the mirror to examine my newest body decoration. Et In Arcadia Ego reflects back at me in black, swirly letters, making a bow across my left side.
“Very pretty, Leo, darling,” Zach gushes. “It enhances your waist.”
I scoff. I couldn’t care less about how the tattoos beautify my body as long as they cover every inch of where his hands have been. “It’s gorgeous, Zach. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Leo. See you around soon, sweetheart, and give Kendra a hug from me!” he chirps before feigning a left-and-right kis
s to my cheeks, making exaggerated smacking noises.
“Sure thing.” I carefully drape my tee over my side before donning my cap and setting off to go home.
The sun is going down behind the horizon, and I throw an automatic look over my shoulder, relieved to see no one coming up the sidewalk. I would have arranged a later appointment with Zach, but as I’ll have to get up at the ungodly hour of 7:00 a.m. to meet with Carla, it would be wise to crash before midnight for once.
An uncomfortable feeling settles around me, and I roll my shoulder instinctively—a quirk I can’t shake off ever since. Anxious, I whip my head around again, but other than the occasional traffic on the street, the sidewalk is empty. Yet, for some reason, I can’t get rid of the notion of someone lurking in the shadows.
I quicken my steps, inconspicuously gliding my hand into one of the many baggies in my pants to grasp my switchblade. Why a switchblade, you ask? Well, because I’m not the pepper spray kind of girl, is all I can say.
Out of the blue, a hand clamps over my mouth, and my back collides with a hard body, a belt buckle scraping against my freshly tattooed skin. Panic shoots my adrenaline level high as my mind conjures images of that horrible night, and I kick air as I’m roughly dragged backward.
Suddenly, a van stops with screeching wheels next to me, and the doors slide open before a man yells, “Get her inside, quickly!”
Fuck, no. Only over my dead body.
Instinct kicks in, and I bite down on the hand pressing on my mouth. I only manage to clamp the skin of one finger between my teeth, but the guy behind me hisses and loosens his grip.
I try to spin around and face him head-on, but he grabs a fistful of my hair, yanking my head back. Quickly retrieving my secret weapon, I snap the switchblade open swinging aimlessly. Fabric rips, and the man behind me grunts.
Wriggling free from his hold, I swing the knife but only hit his upper arm. He recoils with a howl, and I wrench the blade free, blood soaking his sleeve.
“Fuck!” the guy in the van curses, leaping out of the vehicle and dashing after me as I make my escape. I stumble in my haste to get to safety, giving my chaser the opportunity to tackle me to the ground.
I swing my knife again, but he blocks my arm and twists it, making me yell in pain. He snatches the switchblade from my hand, skillfully bending it to render me immobile. Out of reflex, I snap my head up colliding with his forehead. Pain shoots through my skull, and stars appear in front of my vision, blinding me momentarily.
I manage to roll him off me, kicking him in the balls for good measure and scramble up, simultaneously grabbing my weapon. Before I can bring it down on him, the second guy comes to his defense and snatches my arm. I drive my elbow into his chin, pissing him off for good this time.
“You called for it, girl,” he growls. A fist slams into my face so hard my body flings sideways and lands on the concrete. My tongue burns as if cut in two, and I spit blood.
Someone yanks me up. My survival instinct tells me to fight, but the pain pounding in my skull is unbearable, and I stagger, barely able to keep upright. I see people coming up the sidewalk in my peripheral vision and open my mouth, ready to scream.
“Oh, no, you won’t,” is my only warning before the same fist comes down on me again, this time knocking me out for good.
A nauseating churning in my stomach brings me back to my senses, and I snap my eyes open only to see… nothing.
It doesn’t take me long to realize a piece of fabric covers my face, feeling it corded around my neck and digging into my throat. I’m pressed into cushioned leather squeaking under my butt, and my head tosses around to the motions rocking my body.
What the fuck?
Lifting my hands in an attempt to remove the thing obscuring my view, I realize in horror that they are bound, along with my ankles. Another rocking motion and the sound of water splashing against a surface increases the nausea twirling in my belly, and it’s all I can do not to throw up. A metallic tang hits my tastebuds, and I wince at the pain in my mouth.
Then I remember… two guys attacking me on the street, one of them hitting me so hard I dropped like a sack.
I whimper as terror washes over me, afraid I’ll find myself in the hands of him again, even if I know it’s impossible. Feeling my clothes on my body, I realize with relief that I’m still dressed, and gathering from the wind tossing my hair around, I’m not in a bedroom, either.
A motor revs underneath me, and the salty air allows the assumption that I’m on a boat—a fast one, it seems, if the speed with which it hits the waves is anything to go by. Tossing and turning, I test my restraints in an attempt to get them off me, but the only thing I accomplish is toppling over from what feels like a bench and land on what’s apparently the deck.
This attracts attention, and I hear two guys talking agitatedly to each other. I immediately recognize their voices.
Shit, I’m screwed.
Approaching footsteps make me scoot back, but I don’t get far. Hands clamp around my arms and heave me back onto the bench. The fabric is roughly yanked from my head, and I blink at the blinding light.
A chubby guy peers down at me, his expression steely. His olive-toned skin lets me assume he has South-American roots, and dark shades cover his eyes . A Burberry watch twinkles from under his gray suit sleeve, one I only recognize because of Kendra’s obsession with the brand.
“Who the fuck are you?” I spit, wincing as I feel my lip split where it sports a cut.
Chubby guy, who looks like an older version of Ice Cube with a scruff of curly black hair, ignores me, pressing a bottle of water to my lips instead. I drink, washing down the taste of blood. I’m pleased to see the dried specks of blood on his upper arm ruined his four-figure Armani piece, knowing I inflicted the wound.
“He won’t be pleased, Javier,” the second guy calls over the loud wind, and I turn my head to see him peeking over his shoulder from where he’s maneuvering the wheel. This one looks similar to Ice Cube, wearing the same suit and glasses, but his figure is slenderer. His head is bald, and his features remind me of Michael Jordan.
Ice Cube rolls his shoulder, shooting me an annoyed look. “I didn’t count on her being so difficult,” he grunts.
My eyes fall to his nose, and I stifle a chuckle. “Did you smack a wall or something?”
He looks taken aback for a second. “What?”
“Your nose. It looks… flat.” Really, his nose is nearly flush with his face, his nostrils so wide I could easily stuff three chopsticks into each. My words anger him, and his fists clench at my insult.
“Javier!” Michael Jordan calls in a warning tone. “Calm yourself!” Ice Cube lifts his chin in defiance but obeys the order.
“What the fuck do you want with me? And why the hell am I on a fucking boat?” I demand. Ice Cube turns his back to me and joins his friend at the cockpit. “Hey, asshole, I’m talking to you!” I yell, but my rant falls on deaf ears. “And where’s my cap?” I shout, annoyed about my hair whipping my face. No answer, only grim faces.
In the end, I’m left with sitting here and squishing any hope of escaping. I mean, where should I go? Jump head first into the water with shackled hands and ankles trying to stay afloat in the middle of the ocean? A dark trail on the horizon is the only sign of land, and it’s still miles away. Patting down my pants, I feel for my phone, but of course, I come up empty. No surprise they didn’t let me keep it.
Michael Jordan presses his finger onto an earpiece, and I notice a transparent wire curling over his ear and vanishing under his collar. With one hand, he steers the wheel where the Aston Martin’s emblem is embedded in shiny silver next to AM37. I know nothing about cars, let alone powerboats, but the teak floor, the white leather covering the laid-out rear seating big enough to fit six people, and the wraparound windscreen with tinted glass screams opulence.
Thank God, the speedboat conquers the distance quickly, and soon, we arrive on land.
“Really? Cancún?” I
scoff, recognizing the city after Kendra dragged us here for summer vacation last year.
Silent as a grave, Tweedledee and Tweedledum anchor the boat in the port and hurl me out. I contemplate screaming for help, but before I can do so, a gun cocks at the base of my spine. I’m not afraid of him shooting me. It’s obvious they have a plan for me, but anything hovering at my back petrifies me.
A van already waits, this one just as fancy with tinted windows and polished wheel rims. An uncomfortable feeling settles in my belly.
“Do you work for my father?” It wasn’t long ago that Cancún became another victim of Mexico’s drug war, and it wouldn’t surprise me if this city became my father’s new playground. I don’t expect an answer but receive a quipped, “No,” which lets me breathe in relief.
The ride in the van is endless. Night falls and settles. We stop once to get a sandwich from the gas station and for me to release my bladder, for which Michael Jordan frees my ankle restraints, Ice Cube standing guard outside the door.
And then we hit the road again while I keep track of the digital clock on the dashboard.
10:00 p.m.
Midnight.
2:00 a.m.
3:30 a.m.
At some point, I must have dozed off because when I wake again, the sun already blazes high in the sky. Blinking the sleep from my eyes, I take in my surroundings.
Sharp pointed metal gates swing open as the van slows, opening up to a wide pathway made of sandstone and rimmed with neatly trimmed rosebushes. Each free square is decorated with potted palm trees, lush greeneries, and heavy stone fountains.
An enormous Mediterranean mansion comes into view, its red brick roof glistening in the sunlight. Carved pillars hold wide arcs, and elegant balustrades frame balconies on the upper floor. The lower level shows floor-to-ceiling glass and luxurious furniture inside.
“Get out,” Ice Cube snaps, stopping me from ogling the huge estate.
I comply unwillingly, groaning when I wade into the blistering heat. The distinct sound of sloshing water reaches my ears, most likely a swimming pool as big as Sam’s garden. God, what I wouldn’t give for a dive…
