Page 177 of When Lies Unfold

With careful precision, she sets out a heating pad and two options for pain relievers on the dresser.

Once she backs away, she carefully slides her hand into her apron and removes something.

“If you can hold out a bit longer”—her eyes lift, possessing an odd intensity—“you’ll soon be free of discomfort.”

I regard her silently, our eyes holding as she crosses the room. When she reaches for my hand, I stiffen, the fingers of my other hand curling into a fist. She tucks a small foldable pocketknife into my palm and presses my fingers closed around it.

Is this a setup of some sort? I don’t dare say a word. I stand stock-still while the woman backs away. She gathers her tray and offers a subdued smile. “Be sure to get extra rest, Mrs. Carrera.”

On cue, the guard swings open the door, his gaze as suspicious as ever. But she wordlessly steps past him and disappears from sight.

When the guard’s attention lands on me, his eyes turn arctic. His index and middle fingers are taped in a splint, thanks to me.

He tried to put his hands somewhere he shouldn’t have, all under the guise of searching me a second time for weapons.

He was a tattletale, of course. His wounded ego had wanted retaliation against the woman who’d hurt him and his ego. With Hidalgo’s gleeful permission, the guard had punched me in the face for my misbehavior.

The asshole’s punch knocked me off-balance. Before I could get to my feet, Hidalgo delivered a handful of brutal kicks, gifting me with newly fractured ribs.

I suppose I should be impressed that it only took a few hours for me to sustain this many injuries. In years past, he would never outsource the torture, but things have significantly shifted.

Lifting my chin a notch, I meet the guard’s gaze head-on. Pure disgust radiates from him, only intensifying when he notices the sanitary pads on the dresser.

Like the petulant asshole he is, he stomps out, slamming the door shut behind him. The lock slides into place a moment later.

Holy shit. My skin prickles with nervous anticipation. I have a weapon now—a much more viable one, too. But I still can’t confirm whether I was given this knife to protect myself or to be caught red-handed as another reason to incur a beating.

I have no way of knowing if that was Agent Garcia or not, and with everything being monitored, I can’t afford to make an error.

But as I test the knife’s weight in my hand, it births a new brand of hope.

This knife could very well be my saving grace.

82

LOLA

THIRTY MINUTES PRIOR TO THE INITIAL EXPLOSION

The guard on duty yanks open my bedroom door to bark orders at me.

“Jefe wants you ready for dinner in thirty minutes.” He hangs a dress on the hook mounted to the back of the door before placing a shoebox on the dresser.

As quickly as he entered, he exits with a slam of the door and a click of the lock.

The drab, navy-blue dress may have a designer label, but it’s hideous. Ankle-length with long sleeves, Hidalgo undoubtedly wants my tattoos concealed. I also know before I even remove the lid on the shoebox that a pair of flats awaits me.

Typical.

But if Hidalgo expects me to play along, he’s in for quite a surprise. I left behind the docile woman who was barely surviving five years ago. That’s when Rosa Carrera died.

Lola Arias doesn’t cower to any man—even when the result is brutal punishment.

A sense of serenity washes over me, allowing the tension in my muscles to ebb.

When my bedroom door opens thirty minutes later, the guard’s eye twitches at my appearance. He mutters, “Jefe won’t like this.”

Too fucking bad.

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