Page 158 of When Lies Unfold

Barranquilla Carnival

Colombia

12 years earlier

“I feel it in my soul, nieta?1.” My abuelita’s eyes crinkle at the corners, but there’s no denying the sadness lingering on her features.

She gently adjusts the large, decorative mask covering much of my face, stopping just above my top lip. “Tonight will lead you to your fate.”

I don’t have the heart to remind her that she’s wrong. That it’s too late and my fate’s already been decided.

That my own parents chose money over family. That my father agreed to sell me to a monster.

Tomorrow, I’ll be forced to marry a criminal who’s done egregious things I don’t even dare speak of.

Mentally shoving those heavy thoughts aside, I muster a smile for my grandmother. After all, she insisted on this night. She convinced my parents that she had an important indigenous ceremony to administer to me that would properly bless my nuptials.

It’s a lie, of course. She’s insisting that I attend the Barranquilla Carnival. She keeps telling me it’s important for my fate. She said it’ll play a role in the trajectory of my life’s path.

As much as I love her, I don’t know that I share her beliefs. It’s difficult when you’re being sold like a slave.

Abuelita not only did my hair and makeup to better disguise the lower part of my face left bare by the mask, but she also sewed my costume. She included countless sequins and metallic-blue feathers to match the blue morpho butterfly’s trademark wings.

For this particular carnival, people normally chose to dress in elaborate costumes of animals, but I decided to veer away from the norm. Especially since this would be the first and last time I’d be able to attend.

I look like a butterfly—specifically, a blue morpho. Not only have I always found their iridescent blue wings breathtakingly gorgeous, but they represent a freedom, of sorts.

A freedom I’ll be stripped of all too soon.

My black, figure-hugging strapless bodysuit covers my legs, leaving the area above my chest and arms bare but concealed by body paint.

Abuelita runs her fingertips over the delicate metallic-blue feathers affixed to the harness strapped to my shoulders. “My beautiful butterfly. You’ve yet to spread your wings”—she murmurs this softly—“but it’ll happen.”

She fusses over me a final time before shooing me out the door.

Moments later, I’m surrounded by bright lights and the pulsating beat of music as I mingle with the enormous crowd of costumed carnival-goers. I’ve never been permitted to do this before, and although an ominous cloud hangs over me with what tomorrow brings, I’m grateful my grandmother coordinated this for me.

The cacophony of music and chatter is deafening as I venture around a lioness and a gazelle and others in elaborate, colorful costumes. An inexplicable impulse has me moving farther through the crowd. Although my identity is well-concealed, with blue contact lenses, the mask, blonde wig, and body paint, I still feel terribly out of place.

I’ve always been more of a loner, mainly because of my father. His job is incredibly dangerous, which puts us at risk.

He gets paid well to be a lackey for Hidalgo Carrera, but with the deal he’s made—with the “sale” of his daughter—he’s due to significantly increase his wealth.

My sequined outfit is far more revealing and formfitting than I’m used to, but the anonymity my other accessories provide helps ease my worries. No one but my grandmother will ever know that I was here tonight.

The scent of carimañolas?2 fills the air, and I spot a food truck across the crowded street. I edge through the crowd, passing others who ooh and ahh at my costume. I’m halfway across when I see him.

He stands taller than the majority of others, but that’s not initially what has me riveted. He gives the impression that he’s here alone and doesn’t necessarily fit in either.

I tell myself that it’s the carimañolas food truck I’m after, but something draws me toward the man. His eyes appear to lock on me with an intensity that sends a zing of awareness coursing through me.

For a split second, I wonder if he’s one of those men—the ones sent to track my whereabouts. But I’m quickly reminded that they have a certain way about them that I’d recognize. This particular man doesn’t resemble them in the least.

A unique air of confidence surrounds this man, far different than the others. His dark hair is short, buzzed close on the sides with the barest extra bit of length on top.

He’s clean-shaven and dressed in all-black clothing, and his mask resembles a black panther. It’s as large as mine, extending from his hairline to below his nose.

He holds my gaze captive the closer I venture toward him, and the crowd seems to part on its own accord as if it senses the need to yield to his powerful authority.

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