Page 37 of When Lies Unfold

Alma lets go of my hand and marches over to the door before slamming it closed in the woman’s face. I blink in surprise, but the little girl seems unbothered when she reaches my side once again.

Leading me around the pristine room, she proudly points everything out. Small and raspy, her voice is muted as she offers descriptions.

“That’s my bed. It’s a princess bed. Isn’t it beautiful? And that’s my favorite unicorn blanket…

“That’s where I put all my clothes that need to be folded. ’Cept I hate foldin’ clothes, so I put some of ’em on hangers.

“That’s my special carpet with the big butterfly in the center. See? My name’s on it, too.

“Look at the colors of my room! It matches your butterflies’ colors. Blue morphos are my favorite, too!”

I watch her closely, wondering what Santiago meant when he said she doesn’t speak. Because, clearly, she does.

“Look at my dollhouse. Isn’t it amazin’? Daddy said I should have only the best since I never had any dolls or a dollhouse.”

“Really?” I can’t hide the doubt in my tone, but thankfully, she doesn’t pick up on it. I can’t imagine Santiago doing much of anything kind or sweet for anyone, let alone a small child.

When she leads me to a shelf displaying some framed photos, I lean in for a closer look. In one, she poses beside Santiago.

“That’s from my birthday.” She scratches the side of her cheek, removing part of the chocolate stain. “It was the best birthday of my life.” When she turns toward me, her smile radiates palpable enthusiasm. “When’s your birthday?”

“In June.” Once the words spill out, I wish I could take them back. Anxiety and self-directed fury coil tightly in my stomach, and I rush to change the subject.

When I notice a large crate filled with defiled teddy bears, I slide her a questioning glance. “What’s all this?” A few bears have their heads ripped off and some had their stuffing removed while the majority are missing eyes and noses altogether.

A sour expression washes over her adorable face. “Those are the stupid teddy bears Keyna gives me.” She sticks out her tongue at the crate. “I hate ’em ’cause I hate her. She only gives ’em to me ’cause she likes my daddy.”

Keyna. I cycle the name through my mind until it dawns on me. Keyna was mentioned in the conversation between Nando and Santiago at my house the other day. Evidently, she’s no stranger to spreading her legs for them.

A fiery surge of something foreign licks through my veins, and if I didn’t know better, I’d say it was jealousy. But that’s ridiculous, because I can’t stand Santiago.

It’s more likely to be a sensation of utter disgust that she’s trying to use this sweet little girl to get closer to Santiago.

When the bedroom door swings open to reveal the man himself, it spawns a dense, dark cloud over us.

That cloud turns more severe with his commanding voice. “Time’s up, Miss Arias.”

Alma scowls in protest, but all he says is, “Alma.” His expression speaks volumes, those eyes filled with warning, and the poor girl’s shoulders sag with disappointment.

Compelled to smooth over the letdown she’s experiencing, I bend my knees to meet her gaze. “Thank you for showing me your room. You were right.” I extend my left arm. “My butterflies’ colors match your room perfectly.”

Her entire face brightens a moment before she throws her arms around me, almost sending me off-balance as she hugs me tightly.

I slide a cautious glance at Santiago, who remains in the doorway as I return the girl’s hug. My eyes inadvertently fall closed, and an old yearning attempts to eke past my locked defenses.

Once upon a time, I imagined having a family of my own. Of having a daughter or son.

But that dream was assassinated with all the others I once had.

Alma’s whisper in my ear is barely audible, and I strain to hear her. “Come back again, and we can play, okay?”

A tiny knot forms in my throat, and all I can offer is a hoarse, “Okay.”

How is it possible that this little girl has lived through such a traumatic time and still came out so loving and sweet?

“Miss Arias.” Santiago beckons me once again, and I drop my arms from Alma and straighten.

Alma eases back, her hands at her sides. A tiny crease forms between her brows as she studies me before she runs over to one of the shelves she has with little butterfly figurines on display. Rushing back to me, she thrusts a blue one into my hand and curls my fingers over it.

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