Page 68 of When Lies Unfold

His slate-gray button-down shirt is undone at his throat, revealing black-inked designs that disappear beneath the fabric. That large skull over his Adam’s apple stares back at me with its hollowed eye sockets.

“She had a nightmare.” He repeats this slowly. “You still coulda sent her back to her room.”

I lower my fork, mustering patience. “I could’ve, but I didn’t. She just had a nightmare and needed a moment.”

“Which turned into all night.”

“I think we all know what it’s like to have a nightmare…as a child.” I tack on the last three words hastily because I know better than to dangle anything in front of him that he might use against me.

His eyes narrow a fraction, and I internally scold myself, because this man is astute as hell.

I shovel in a few more bites, eager to fill my stomach enough to excuse myself.

“Gordo tell you what’s up?”

I wash down my food with a final sip of coffee and sit back. “He mentioned something about me being treated like a”—I hook my fingers in air quotes—“guest.”

One dark brow lifts a fraction. “Don’t sound like you believe it.”

I widen my eyes and blink innocently. “After the wonderful hospitality you’ve shown me, why on earth would I think that?”

His features turn to granite. “There’s that mouth of yours again.”

I offer a fake smile. “Gordo seems to like it.”

Fury descends over his features. His demanding words are devoid of inflection as an inquiry, holding more of a threat. “The fuck kind of business does Gordo have with your mouth.”

“He was only trying to come up with BFF names. And failing miserably, I might add.”

“BFF names.” He repeats this slowly, as if it’s something foreign to him.

Knowing him, it probably is.

“You know, best-friends-forever names?” And at his blank expression, I explain. “He suggested we combine our names in a shortened version. Like GorLol and LoGo, for example.” A huff of laughter escapes me at Gordo’s ridiculousness. “He definitely needs to work on better ones.”

“That so?” A trace of interest crosses his face, but it disappears so quickly, I wonder if I imagined it.

“That’s so.” A quick glance at the wall clock indicates I’m running short on time, so I rise from my seat. “Well, I need to get going.”

He follows suit, straightening to his tall form, and I swallow hard. The way his button-down shirt fits across his broad chest and his black pants mold to his firm, muscled legs taunts me, because I know firsthand what that clothing disguises.

I’m grateful when an older man strides in, dressed in gray slacks and a white button-down shirt. “Good morning!”

Mostly bald, aside from the closely shaven gray hair on the sides, he flashes a broad smile. Addressing Santiago, he dips his chin in a nod. “Sir.” To me, he offers his hand. “You must be the woman I heard so much about. I’m Dr. Cristiano Trejos.”

“Nice to meet you, Dr. Trejos.” I shake his hand but cast a wary glance at Santiago before continuing. “And that depends on what you heard.”

The man lets out a hearty laugh. “I can see why he wanted us to meet. Quick on your feet in a medical emergency and beautiful and funny, too.”

Heat floods my cheeks, and when I dart a look at Santiago, a prominent vein bulges alongside his temple while he glares at the doctor.

Each subsequent word is ground out from between his clenched teeth. “I wanted you to meet and go over your assessment of Miss Arias’s work on Andro.”

Santiago’s tone evicts the lighthearted quality from the older man’s demeanor, and the doctor’s features turn sober.

“Ah, yes. I was impressed with your handiwork. Your sutures were precise and clean and”—his dark gray brows veer together—“your use of cayenne pepper surprised me.

“Once I consulted with a few colleagues who’d worked alongside some indigenous healers, however, I learned this is often used in emergencies and for healing.” He dips his chin in a nod of reverence. “Well done, Miss Arias. Well done.”

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