Page 13 of When Lies Unfold

We’ve got a few men in place to keep eyes on Miss Arias and her little casita. I’m not takin’ any more chances than I already have tonight.

Concern has Gordo’s brows slantin’ together. “All good, boss?”

“All good.” And it will be, as long as a certain tattooed woman holds to her word.

Otherwise, she’ll join the long list of those whose lives I’ve ended.

7

LOLA

Saturday

Early morning sounds from the wood rails, nearby roosters, and howler monkeys rouse me from my sleep. I blink my eyes open, realizing one of my sharpest knives remains in my fisted hand.

It’s not the first time I’ve gone to bed with a weapon in my grip or under my pillow. It seems like a lifetime ago when that felt like a necessity.

When I peer around my bedroom and notice nothing out of place, my muscles lose a fraction of their tension.

“Okay.” My muted voice seems to echo within the tight confines of the bedroom. “It’ll be okay. I can do this.”

I sit up, swing my legs over the side of the bed, and shuffle into the bathroom. Placing the knife on the vanity, I twist my hair up with a clip.

As I stare at my reflection in the mirror, a flash of recognition hits me. It’s my eyes that remind me most of her…although hers had a multitude of crinkles at the corners from smiles and laughter.

“Abuelita?1.” I breathe her name on the barest breath of a whisper. On its heels comes a deep lance of pain ricocheting through my chest.

There’s a reason I bury my memories deep in the recesses of my mind. It isn’t necessarily that I don’t want to remember—it’s simply far too painful when I do.

My fingers drift up to trace a path along my brows before sweeping beneath my brown eyes, identical to my abuelita’s.

My mother often complained that I was a carbon copy of my grandmother when she was younger. All my mother wanted was a mini version of herself in both looks and personality, so I was an instant disappointment.

I was everything she never wanted: a daughter who barely resembled her and wanted nothing to do with designer dresses and expensive shoes. I’d always felt more at ease being barefoot in nature, getting muddy, and learning about everything I touched.

As for my father, he’d wanted a son. So, my existence was an utter disappointment for him as well.

It’s why they happily handed me over to my abuelita so often. Because they didn’t understand nor want me, but my grandmother did.

During those special times I spent at my grandmother’s, tucked away in her home that sat along the edge of the rainforest, she’d share stories from her childhood on how she’d been raised to live off the land. How she’d been just as curious and adventurous as I was.

We spent countless hours in her garden while she taught me to cultivate everything she deemed “necessary for life.” My parents thought I was playing in the dirt, but I’d been learning how to heal the body by using what nature provides.

My grandmother had always gone against the grain and been headstrong, which were qualities my father barely tolerated.

Those times spent with her were a reprieve from the constant criticism I endured when I was with my parents. The same parents who’d turned a blind eye to my wants. My goals. My happiness.

My safety.

At the dark, distressing turn of my thoughts, I duck my head over the sink and scrub my face with soap and cool water.

Imagining the tainted memories joining the soapy water down the drain doesn’t do me much good, especially when my fingertips glance over the small scars decorating my skin. With a sigh, I dry my face and brush my teeth, forcing my mind to go blank.

Once I reclaim the knife off the sink, I grab my cell phone off my nightstand and pad into the kitchen. Something instinctive has me surveying it and the living room, but nothing appears out of place.

I set my phone on the counter with the knife beside it but still within reach. I spoon ground coffee into the small cloth filter hanging from the polished wood frame and place my favorite mug beneath the simple, typical Costa Rican coffee maker.

Since we’re not currently without electricity—which is a gift in itself—I cheat and plug in my electric kettle to heat the water faster. Once it’s ready, I pour the steaming water over the coffee grounds and wait for it to create my morning pick-me-up.

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