Page 155 of When Lies Unfold

“Who’s this?”

“Rosa Carrera.”

Silence greets me before he finally grits out, “Rosa Carrera’s dead.”

“No, she’s not.”

“And why should I believe you?”

I hold the small, square desk calendar display beside my face and snap a selfie before attaching it to a text message. Once I press Send, I tell him, “This should suffice.”

Caustic silence stretches between us before his voice turns gruff with disbelief. “You don’t look anything like?—”

“I dyed my hair back to its natural color and got some tattoos.” Exasperation paints my tone. “Zoom in on my face, and you’ll see the proof.”

Hidalgo had insisted I regularly keep my hair a dark blonde shade, which required much upkeep considering my natural hair color borders on black.

But there’s no mistaking the small, pockmarked scars left from Hidalgo’s ring—two of which Rodrigo witnessed the birth of.

“You had your brother distract Hidalgo at the end of the night.” My throat swells with emotion. He'd been the first person Hidalgo ever interacted with who’d offered me genuine kindness. “You told me to call you if I needed help. That you knew what it was like?—"

“—because my father used to hit me,” Rodrigo finishes before his voice grows quieter. “I never shared that with anybody prior to that night.”

Silence lingers before his tone sharpens. “I admit, I’m intrigued, but I didn’t get where I am today by being gullible.”

His suspicion is warranted. Especially after what he did once—or what he tried to do for me.

“Even though he denied being involved, I know Hidalgo killed your brother.”

Rodrigo’s brother, Emanuel, was his best friend and confidant. The two had taken Peru by storm when they’d come on the scene.

One evening, Hidalgo invited them to dinner. Rodrigo had been gaining traction because he was a narco known to instill loyalty in his men, and to be fair but severe when doling out punishment.

My husband felt threatened by them, yet something still drew him to invite Rodrigo and Emanuel. Even worse, he insisted I attend the dinner.

Of course, I had to wear one of the stupid, hideous veils to disguise my face. Hidalgo was obsessed with keeping my face hidden and insisting I wear only long-sleeve, ankle-length dresses.

When Emanuel stepped away to take a call, Hidalgo lost his temper with me. He accused me of being unfaithful and attempting to lure the man.

He backhanded me in front of Rodrigo, the hit so violent that my head had snapped back, the impact knocking off my veil.

Then, because my face was exposed in front of our guest, he backhanded me yet again.

Rodrigo had attempted to intervene on my behalf, which proved to be a devastating mistake. Later that night, my husband put out an order to have Emanuel killed. Of course, there was no evidence to lead back to him being the murderer. But I’m certain Rodrigo suspected it.

“How do you know this?” His question possesses more than a healthy dose of skepticism.

“Because I overheard him plan it. He’s the one who bombed Emanuel’s car.”

As expected, he challenges with, “Everyone knows my brother was the victim of a car bomb.”

“But not everyone knows that each of Emanuel’s vehicles was rigged with a bomb. That the only one that went off was in the vehicle he decided to drive that day.”

“That motherfucker!” he explodes. This outburst is trailed by the sound of something slamming against a hard surface. A beat passes before he continues his line of questioning, his tone encased in an amalgamation of grief, anger, and wariness. “Where have you been all this time?”

“In Costa Rica.”

Suspicion enters his voice once again. “Why are you calling me?”

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