Page 7 of The Witness

Kira’s sharp inhale was enough for me to know they were fully aware of who Sandoval was. He wasn’t the kind of man to get profiles on TV crime shows, but he was a big player in the underworld making a name for himself with a web of criminals on both sides of the law. Or so Lewis told me when I called him.

“How?” Smith’s one word cut through my thoughts. His unnerving gaze pinned me to the chair, chasing my next sentence out of my head.

Kira put her hand on his leg, her perfectly manicured nails digging into his thigh as she leaned over and hissed something in his ear. Smith’s jaw clenched. But he freed me from his laser-like stare. I sagged back into the chair like a marionette whose strings had been cut.

I collected my scattered thoughts and readied myself to tell the story of that day one more time. When Michael’s hand returned to my shoulder, I welcomed his support with a glance in his direction and a sad smile. Time for my superman to earn his cape.

“I’m a chef, and among other things, I have a catering business. About ten days ago, I was hired to do a small brunch on a yacht off the coast. It was apparent it was a business meeting from the moment I arrived on board. Six men, all speaking Spanish, gathered around a table in the main salon. I worked cooking in the galley and serving in the salon.” I paused and took a fortifying sip of the tea, regretting I’d only asked for honey and not a shot of whiskey to be added to my cup.

“The job was nothing interesting. Just a paycheck. Until I was clearing the last of the dishes from the meal. A crying woman wrapped in a bedsheet crashed into the salon. Her makeup was smeared and her hair a mess, but she was beautiful. I thought she might be on drugs or something. She was so distraught. She was screaming at Sandoval, trying to attack him. Over and over she kept repeating: ‘Rafa Sandoval, you will burn in hell.’”

“And you know who she was calling Rafa Sandoval? You can identify him?” Smith interrupted.

“Absolutely.” The man’s cold expression had been tattooed into my memory.

The wisp of a smile that curved Smith’s lips at my assurance made my skin crawl and my tongue stick to the roof of my suddenly dry mouth. He motioned for me to keep talking. I took a small sip of tea.

“An armed security guy grabbed her in a bearhug and carried her out of the room. It was like no big deal to the men. They shared a laugh at her expense, even as she kept screaming in the hallway. I kept my head down, clearing the table as fast as I could. My Spanish isn’t great, but good enough to know Sandoval made a joke about if she only knew how bad he really was, she’d understand he and the devil were already friends. I chalked it up to one more crazy story to tell people about catering in Miami.” I trailed off.

“But?” Kira prompted me. She could probably tell I was stalling. Wanting to go off on a tangent to avoid retelling the part of the day I saw in my nightmares.

“So, yeah. I went back to the galley to finish cleaning up. The kitchen was in the rear of the boat, and I had a partial view of the back deck where you stand to fish. I’d opened the porthole to get rid of the smell of the bacon I’d cooked. Is it even called aportholeon a mega yacht?” I shrugged and wrapped my arms around my middle, the images I didn’t want to describe replaying in my mind. Michael traced soothing circles over my back. I took a deep breath and forced myself to keep talking.

“Sandoval and the woman were outside yelling. I turned in time to see him slap her hard. She fell. The yelling stopped. They had moved out of my line of sight. I tried to relax and get back to work, but I kept watching the sliver of back deck out the open porthole. A few moments later, a blood-stained sheet blew out into the water. I, ah, only saw Sandoval leave the back deck.” I covered my mouth, trying to hold in the sob.

The shaky breath I sucked in did nothing to ease the knot in my chest. Michael squeezed my shoulder. My gaze lingered on Kira. Talking to another woman made it harder and easier. I’d failed one of the sisterhood.

“I keep telling myself she was already dead, that I couldn’t have saved her. God, I hope she was.” A few tears raced down my cheeks. “He must have tossed her overboard. I wasn’t sure then, but three days later I saw her picture on TV. Her naked body had washed ashore in Key Biscayne. Her name was Gabriela Cantoral. She was a TV actress in Mexico.” The publicity picture of her the news had shown had haunted me since.

Kira closed her eyes and swallowed visibly; this time it was Smith who rested a hand on his spouse’s leg.

“I think I couldn’t let myself believe that he’d done something so horrible while I was still on the boat. I was totally at theirmercy. My only way back to Miami was the tender that brought me and most of the businessmen aboard.”

I recalled how panicked I’d been, stuck on that yacht. The memory brought fresh tears streaming down my face.

“I don’t know how I did it, but I finished cleaning up and ten minutes later kept it together to shake Sandoval’s hand before I boarded the small speed boat that took me and the others back to shore.” I wiped my right palm on my leg like I still had residue from his touch on my skin.

“None of what happened was your fault,” Kira said, and the men both murmured in agreement. Her words and their sympathy didn’t magically lift the ton of guilt resting on my soul. Nothing would anytime soon.

They didn’t understand. The worst part. The burning shame.

“It’s not knowing if she was dead that’s haunting me. What if she was alive when he threw her off the boat? Drifting in the ocean until, until—”

Michael squatted to put an arm around me. I turned into him, half crawling out of the chair to do it. My breath came in short, hard pants, and guilt crashed over me in a wave. I pressed into his broad chest, looking for a way to keep it together but fearing it was already lost.

“I waited to call Lewis until I saw her photo on TV. It was three days. What if it’s my fault she died treading water, and no one was looking for her?” I whispered my words into Michael’s chest. It was the first time I’d dared to say it out loud. Could someone have saved her if I’d acted sooner?

Michael wrapped his other arm around me, and I let go. I cried. Big wracking sobs. For the dead Mexican soap opera actress. For the cook at the diner. For Lewis Wright. For my restaurant.

And for myself.

Chapter 4

Michael

I’d ended up on my boss’s living room rug with Sabrina curled in my lap as she cried. The tears were the ugly kind that tore through a person. A purge.

The last time I’d seen someone cry like this, it had been my mother after my sister’s funeral. That had been more than a decade ago, but you didn’t forget what a soul in anguish looked like.

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