Page 162 of When Lies Unfold

Instead of answering, he tips his head, gesturing for me to head inside. “Let’s go to my office.”

He waits for me to precede him inside before we fall into step, walking side by side in silence. Once we enter his office, he closes the door and sits behind his desk.

I lower myself to the chair opposite him, my muscles growing impossibly taut with apprehension by the second.

Dressed in only a pair of pants, he should look far less intimidating than he does in his usual tailored designer button-downs. Yet when he leans back in his leather desk chair, he still incites the impulse to fidget beneath the heavy weight of his stare.

His inscrutable expression gives away nothing. “How you feel about today?”

I take a second to answer. Because honestly, I know this is the right thing to do. I hold the power to get Alma back with her father, where she’s safe and loved.

But my feelings? Those are messy and beyond convoluted. A small part of me is terrified to confront the monster who robbed me of so much. One who forever changed the trajectory of my life.

Another part of me is antsy and determined to do whatever it takes to ensure that Hidalgo never takes another breath. Even if it means sacrificing my last breath.

As much as I’ve struggled with the knowledge that I’m a murderer, there’s no way I plan to turn myself over to Juarez and the US authorities. I escaped a nightmare of a prison once, and I refuse to return to a different brand of one.

I offer Santy a succinct response. “I feel confident.” It’s mostly true, because I am confident I’ll succeed, regardless of what it costs me.

My main goal is to see that Alma is safely returned to Santy. The rest—marring my soul further by murdering Hidalgo—is just a bonus.

Pitch-black eyes probe mine as if they’re attempting to sift through my thoughts. Something flickers across his features before they turn more severe, instilling a deeper wariness that seeps into my bones.

Without tearing his focus off me, he eases his chair a few inches away from his desk. His voice is a scratchy rasp, his tone filled with a command as he raps his inked knuckles against the desk’s surface.

“Come ’ere, Miss Arias.”

75

SANTIAGO

With hesitant movements, she rounds the far corner of my desk. Her expression’s cagey as she surveys my bookshelves once again.

She draws to a stop a few feet away, her attention restin’ on the open dictionary. Placin’ her fingertip on the page, she traces it along the definition I marked.

Not meetin’ my eyes, she poses her question softly. “When did you start reading the dictionary?”

I survey her carefully for a moment. She’s stallin’ for some reason, but I give her an honest answer.

“Growin’ up poor and with worthless addicts as family, I had to drop outta school ’cause I had to hustle for food and a safe place to sleep. Knew I didn’t wanna struggle the rest of my life, so I had to figure out how to be better than everybody else.”

I study my knuckles, covered in ink. Nobody’d know that the same fuckin’ hands that’ve killed people have held some of the most famous written works—willingly.

“I might not be the toughest motherfucker out there, but I could do my best to outsmart others. And that’s what I set out to do.”

I scan the shelves with the other books I’ve read over the years. They range in topics from ruthless business tactics, leadership, situational awareness, and managin’ assets. “I knew it was necessary to keep addin’ to my skillset if I wanted to make somethin’ of myself.”

I hesitate before admittin’ quietly, “But I also knew I wasn’t gonna be some doctor or lawyer. Definitely not a cop.”

A rough, derisive laugh rumbles in my chest. “All my life, I’ve never been on the right side of the law. After all, I’m a goddamn narco. A murderer. Sure as hell never been one of the good guys.”

When she lifts her head and our eyes lock, it gives me the sensation she can read my inner thoughts. “I don’t know about that.” Before I can protest, she continues gently. “I think there’s a good guy beneath all those layers.”

I shift in my chair. My discomfort from her assessment of me has my words emergin’ with a sharper than usual edge. “Even when I took Andro from my piece-of-shit sister, it’s not like I put him in some fancy boardin’ school somewhere. Just had him shadow me, thinkin’ he’d learn that way.” Self-recrimination takes hold, bleedin’ through in my voice. “And look how he turned out.”

My gaze bores into hers, my words filled with warnin’. “So, don’t make me out to be somebody I’m not.”

She ventures closer, edgin’ between my legs. A fraction of wariness pulses through me when she raises her hands and gently removes the band holdin’ back my hair.

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