Page 48 of The Trap

“Raiden,” my name is a plea on his lips.

“Time,” the voice announces.

I look back to Colson, whose gaze has not faltered.

“Raiden,” he murmurs, bringing his hand to my chin, swiping his thumb against my skin. “What is it?” he asks, voice rich with concern.

Keeping my gaze fixed on those hauntingly beautiful gray eyes, I speak.

“C. Demonio,” I answer. “The key is C. Demonio.”

“Congratulations,” the cryptic voice praises and, as promised, the door opens. “This way.”

This is what we wanted. An out. We played the game. We are so close, but neither of us can move. Colson’s hand does not falter from my chin; neither does his stare. If anything, it’s studying me with deeper intent than he ever has.

“How did you know that was the key?” he asks.

I offer him the mask with the etching on the inside, pointing to it.

“Because it’s you.”

TWENTY-ONE

“Demonio,” I mumble out loud, trying to spark a memory that feels as though it’s on the tip of my tongue. “Demonio,” I repeat, this time with more vigor. I’ve heard that name before, or at least I think have, but I can’t seem to access the part of myself that’s screaming for me to catch up to what’s right in front of me.

“It’s remarkable how far you two have come. You are so close to discovering the truth,” the cryptic voice breaks the momentary silence, and their last word drives an invisible hammer through the fog I’m momentarily lost in, shattering the bewilderment that has rendered me motionless. Questions begin to surface as I attempt to piece this all together. “Ven aquí,” the voice instructs, but neither of us move.

Ignoring the command, I look past the interior of the mask, directly to Raiden. “C. Demonio?” I ask her, making sure to keep my voice down. I bring the mask in my hand closer, pointing to the embroidery.

Her mouth remains still, both lips pressed in a straight, emotionless line. I can’t tell if it’s to prevent herself from saying something or because she genuinely doesn’t know. “Raiden?” Her name, a question and a desperate plea all at once.

Talk to me.

Lips still shut, her eyes betray her. Leaking from her darkened irises is a glossy coating begging to break the barrier that her will is working overtime to maintain. I don’t take my eyes off her, trying to drink in whatever her body can signal to me, but it’s in the silence that a different voice sounds. Not out loud but within myself in the form of a memory.

Suddenly I’m transported back in time to my mother’s reading room. I would sit on the long bench overlooking the large floor-to-ceiling window and color while she read. That was her safe space and the only place in our house that I ever saw her happy or able to cry in peace without my father scrutinizing her for having emotions. So much of my youth was spent keeping my mom company in that room, so thatIcould have a reprieve from the chaos too, while my mom escaped our reality to places that existed amongst pages. But it was one day in particular that is coming to me now, vividly. She had just finished reading a book that brought her to tears. I remember a knot forming in my stomach, afraid that something had hurt her. I was too used to her always being hurt in some way or another. She was crying so intensely, way more than she had with any other book I’d seen her read.

“Mom, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing, baby, I just read something that really resonated with me.”

“What was it about?”

“It was about a woman who everyone assumed was heartless because of how determined she was. But she had the weight of the world on her shoulders, tasked with saving her family. It wasn’t that she didn’t feel, she felt probably more than those who constantly expressed their sorrows. It was because she cared so deeply, she didn’t allow those feelings to overtake her when she needed to focus in battle.”

“Did she win?”

“Win, what, sweetheart?”

“The battle”

“Physically, yes. But emotionally, no. You know, Colson, sometimes it’s those who put on the toughest fronts that are actually screaming on the inside. The mouth often deflects the heart, both in its silence and when it says things it doesn’t mean. It’s the mouth that often betrays the heart, but the eyes…if you ever want to know the truth about how someone’s truly feeling, it’s in the eyes. And sometimes those same eyes can tell you who they are or what they’re feeling, even if they can’t.”

Pulled from the memory playing in my mind like a movie, my ears register the speaker, but my attention is on Raiden. “You know exactly who that is, don’t you, Raiden?” the speaker eggs her on, but she doesn’t respond.

She knows something. I can feel it, and right now more than ever I want–no–Ineedher to be the spitfire I’ve come to know…to want.

With her glassy stare on me, I remain unblinking, ready for her eyes to tell me something–anything–that can help us.

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