Page 6 of When Lies Unfold

I still plan to pay Aarón a visit, however. I wanna hear it straight from him that Miss Arias isn’t a threat. Even so, it doesn’t mean I won’t be keepin’ tabs on her.

One thing’s for sure: her photo ID didn’t do her a damn bit of justice. She’s far more attractive in person.

Her hair’s cut short in the front, a dark fringe that falls barely past her brows, while the rest remains long and gathered at her nape in a low ponytail. The end reaches the middle of her back, shiny and smooth lookin’.

She works efficiently, scrubbin’ at the grout of the tiles, then wipin’ it clean to check her progress. The movement draws my attention to her arms, one bare of ink while the other’s covered in it.

Tattoos of blue morpho butterflies decorate her left arm, the artwork extendin’ from beneath the shirtsleeve and endin’ at her knuckles. Those same blue morphos peek out from beneath the left side of her collar, inked along the left side of her neck.

Those blue butterflies ignite a flash of memory, but I smother it. Nothin’ good comes from revisitin’ the past.

She doesn’t appear to wear any makeup, either. Other cleanin’ ladies dress nice and do their hair and makeup regardless of the kind of job they’ve got. But not Lola Arias, it seems.

One thing I did notice when I found her hidin’ in that bedroom was the small, pockmarked scars along her cheeks and near the corners of her lips. Not sure what they’d be from, but they looked a few years old.

Now, thick rubber gloves cover her hands as she finishes vigorously wipin’ down the floor where the body had been. Gotta give it to her, ’cause no traces of blood remain.

My men removed the body almost immediately. They know the drill, and I have no doubt they’ve already sent Rafa through the woodchipper. It deposits everythin’ into the jungle—where it’ll serve as food for the scavengers and compost for nature.

Determination lines her features as the lean muscles of her arms flex in time to each harsh swipe of the large cleanin’ rag. A pair of jeans encases her ass, moldin’ over the slight flare of her hips.

I cut a sharp glance at my men who stand closest to her, only to discover they’re transfixed by the sight of her ass. When I clear my throat, their eyes jerk to mine, and they at least have the decency to appear embarrassed before schoolin’ their expressions.

Miss Arias climbs to her feet and surveys the space, as if makin’ sure everythin’ meets her cleanin’ standards, before her obstinate brown eyes clash with mine. “All done.”

With the bucket handle gripped in one gloved hand and the rag draped over the bucket’s side, she strides toward the laundry room. One of my men follows her, a hand on his weapon, prepared to draw at any time.

Precautions. This life is filled with ’em.

The slidin’ glass door, tile floor, walls, nor the chair hold any trace of what happened earlier, but my men will do their own inspection to be certain.

When she returns, my man nudges her to stop in front of me. She’s got balls of steel that I begrudgingly admire. Not many people would stand before me like this. Usually, their knees give out and they cower.

Not her, though. She straightens her shoulders and lifts her chin to peer at me as though she’s prepared herself for whatever’s to come—even death. Equally admirable and strange, it’s a rarity to witness.

While I study her, she brazenly returns the gesture. My fingers flex with the urge to draw my weapon. I don’t fuckin’ trust her—hell, it’s quicker to list those I do trust—and I sure as fuck won’t hesitate to put a bullet in her if she tries somethin’.

I know I’m a bastard, and while killin’ women isn’t somethin’ I get off on, I do what’s necessary to keep shit straight. To maintain control.

“I cleaned everything. There’s no way anyone will detect anything happened here.” She speaks with a certain confidence that indicates it’s not an empty promise. But I haven’t made it this far by takin’ people at their word. Promises are too damn easy to make.

Even easier to break.

I take an abrupt step closer and don’t miss the slightest flinch she gives before liftin’ her chin to continue meetin’ my gaze. Interestin’. So, she is afraid of me.

Good. She should be.

Beneath the lingerin’ scent of cleanin’ detergents she’s used, I detect the faintest hint of coconut. Nothin’ about coconut is unique here; you’d have trouble walkin’ five feet without encounterin’ a coconut tree. But on this woman, it somehow eludes bein’ stereotypical and cloyin’.

It doesn’t, however, mean I’m goin’ soft. Lola Arias is unique and intriguin’, and my gut instinct—which never leads me wrong—tells me she could be useful to me.

For now, at least.

“People don’t tend to stay alive once they’ve witnessed shit like this.” My tone is menacin’ ’cause I speak the fuckin’ truth. But somethin’s makin’ me hesitate to follow through on my usual protocol.

Her bare lips press into a thin line as if attemptin’ to censor her response. Her eyes give her away though, screamin’ at me to fuck off. “I won’t say a word to anyone. I’m not a threat to you.”

I make a noncommittal sound. “You might think so, but I don’t make a habit of leavin’ loose ends behind.” A beat of silence hangs between us before I tip my head to the side, studyin’ her closely. “You know who I am?”

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