Page 50 of When Lies Unfold

I’ll survive this. I know I can.

I’ve done this before, and I can do it again.

Just focus on surviving.

When the sharp edge of a knife presses against the side of my neck beneath the rough burlap hood, I repeat the mantra and force my heartbeat to slow.

It takes monumental effort to remain stock-still when they lift the hood slightly to rip off the gag. I suck in a breath my lungs desperately need before the hood drops back into place, keeping my vision obscured.

“What’s your name?” The slightest pause lingers. “Your real name.”

“Lola Arias is my real name.”

The knife digs into my skin, but I don’t react. My mind has already gone to that special, dark place it used to know all too well. Where I block out the pain and operate almost robotically.

I’m not lying about my name. It is my real name…nowadays.

“Are you a doctor?”

“No.” My response lacks any hesitation, and I know it conveys truthfulness.

“A nurse?”

“No.”

A grunt of irritation follows my answer. When the knife’s pressure disappears, I brace for whatever’s coming next.

I know this game all too well.

“What’s your real name?” The man hurls the question at me once again.

I answer just as I had a moment before. “Lola Arias.”

“How’d you know what to do for Andro’s wound?” This particular question comes from a male voice I recognize.

Santiago.

I shake my head to dislodge the hood from where it clings against my face so I can breathe more easily. “I don’t?—”

“Better give a real fuckin’ answer.” The warning in Santiago’s voice is bone chilling. “How’d you know what to do for Andro?”

The hood is yanked off my head, and my eyes are instantly ambushed by a near-blinding beam of bright light directed at my face. I squint, unable to focus, but decipher a dark, shadowed figure in front of me.

At my failure to provide a rapid response, a familiar hand grips my throat. Santiago’s hold is firm but not tight enough to restrict my airway.

“How’d. You. Know.” He doesn’t phrase this as a question, but as a demand.

“I trained on survival in the jungle.” The warmth of his hand isn’t enough to stave off the icy chill brought on by his tone. “We were trained on everything that could possibly happen.”

“And you learned from some jungle survivalist exactly how to stitch serious knife wounds?” Doubt saturates his words.

“Accidents happen. Our goal was to always be prepared.”

“Hmm.” He’s not convinced. That single syllable communicates this.

“I wanted to be a vet.” I squint against the light assaulting my retinas while attempting to focus on Santiago. “But I didn’t have the money to go to school, so I mentored at the vet clinic and took the survival course.”

“Yeah?” Disbelief coats his response. “What’s the number one animal that attacks household pets here?”

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