Page 49 of When Lies Unfold

Lola swallows audibly. “In order to be your mom, that would mean I’d be married to your father, and that’s…” She grimaces before continuin’. “That’s not going to happen.”

At my daughter’s crestfallen expression, Lola rushes on with, “But while I’m around, I’d be more than happy to do those things with you.”

Alma beams. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Cool.” Alma juts upright and scoots off the bed. “I’m gonna go find my colorin’ stuff ’cause I have this cool butterfly colorin’ book for us.” She darts over to the door. “Be right back.”

In typical Alma fashion, she tugs open the door and rushes out, careenin’ down the hall. An amused Lola shakes her head while my mind reels from what I’ve just overheard.

My daughter feels like we think she’s dumb. And it took a stranger—someone who’s wrapped in layers of secrets—to get it out of her.

Goddammit. I rake a hand over my face, my scruff raspin’ against my palm. She wants a mom.

Out of everythin’ she could ask me for, that’s the one thing I can’t give her. The one thing I have no intention of givin’ her. It’s not me bein’ selfish, but ’cause nobody on this earth is good enough.

And yet, she chose Lola Arias. A woman who knows how to stitch up a knife wound. One who can clean well enough to eliminate any trace of blood or bodily remains.

A woman who disappears into the jungle at odd hours without a good explanation.

A woman who got my daughter to voluntarily speak for the first time in two years.

I sink back in my desk chair, mentally cyclin’ through my thoughts. Lola Arias has done the unthinkable and bewitched my daughter.

Not only that, but I’d be lyin’ if I said she hasn’t sunk her claws into me even the slightest bit.

Which means I need to keep my guard up more than ever.

22

LOLA

Even though my new bed is the most comfortable thing I’ve ever laid in, it took me ages to fall asleep. Past survival instinct had me on alert.

Sleeping with awareness is crucial to survival. I’d learned that long ago, because at one point in my life, I never knew when he would attack.

And a person is far more vulnerable when caught in the throes of sleep.

Of course, I’ve become a bit lax in my vigilance over the past two years. The sense of safety this village provided me with has lulled me into it.

Now, I’m paying for my decreased awareness and for my lack of restful sleep since Santiago Hernández entered my life.

I’m exhausted and more sluggish than usual, which is why I don’t immediately register the presence of others in the bedroom.

A gag is shoved in my mouth and quickly taped in place before a rough burlap hood is slung over my head. I struggle, but multiple sets of hands firmly restrain my wrists and ankles before they’re all cinched by zip ties. Then I’m carried out like a fucking animal led to slaughter.

Pure, unadulterated fear threatens to suffocate me, and I do everything I can to fight their hold, but it’s to no avail.

When I’m roughly deposited onto a cold metal chair, I immediately launch myself off it and attempt to crawl away.

Using my bound wrists in front of me for support while sliding my knees along the tile floor isn’t an easy feat, but I’m determined. My bound ankles don’t offer enough slack for movement, though, and someone promptly fists my hair and gives it a painful yank.

“Stay in the goddamn chair.” The commanding grunt comes from behind me. A burning sensation flares in my scalp from where his pull on my hair increases as I’m dragged backward.

He lets out a dark sound of satisfaction once I’m shoved back in the metal chair, the cool surface chilling my bare legs. Someone uses a thick restraint around my waist, securing me to the chair’s back, and my fear escalates even further.

Panic threatens to drag me under when I fail at drawing in much-needed oxygen to my lungs. It’s in this moment of terror that a familiar little voice screams from the back of my mind.

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