Page 46 of Hidden Falls

I had a little longer to take it in this time: the floor was a pattern of fancy stone designs, and the room was an octagon with statues in the corners of it that didn’t have a door—which meant there were four doors and four statues. We’d come in the main front door, which had two enormous wood panels and shiny handles that looked like they were gold-plated.

This time, Noella turned right, and we went down a short hall. A window on my left showed the garden with a fountain I’d seen from my room above; it was even prettier up close. We reached another set of double doors; Noella looked back over her shoulder and smiled. “It’s okay,” she mouthed, and then opened the two doors at the same time with a flourish. “Miss Malia Ramirez,” she announced.

“Malia Clark,” I corrected, stepping out from behind her. “My name is Malia Clark.”

“Of course it is,” a friendly-sounding man’s voice said. “Come in, come in, Malia.”

Noella stepped to one side and gave me a tiny push.

I stiffened my spine and walked into the room. A table long enough to play tennis on took up most of the room; at the end farthest away from the door sat a group of people: two kids, one on each side, and two adults, a man and a woman, at the end.

“I don’t appreciate being brought here,” I said loudly. “I want to go home.”

“You are home.” The man was the only one who stood up to greet me. “Welcome, Malia. Come sit with us.” He gestured to an empty chair beside him and the kid nearest me, a boy about twelve with black hair, brown eyes, and an expression like he’d had to give up his favorite video game to come to dinner.

“Did you hear me?” I folded my arms across my chest. “I would like an explanation, please.”

My stomach picked that minute to give a loud rumble.

“All in good time. Sounds like you’re hungry,” the man said with forced jolliness. “Why don’t we eat while the food is hot?” He looked like a businessman with a good tan who golfed on the weekends, not a sleazebag who kidnapped young girls.

I would eat before I made a scene.

I came forward and took the chair beside the boy, who turned his shoulder so he didn’t have to look at me—someone else who wasn’t happy I was there. “Did he kidnap you, too?” I asked the kid.

The boy frowned. “No inglés,” he said.

“Come now, Fernando, besides being untrue, that’s no way to treat a guest,” the man said. “Let’s partake.”

As if that had been some kind of signal, the doors at the other end of the room opened and five servants—five!—came in carrying covered dishes of food. One of the waiters put a dish down in front of me, and then all five whisked off the covers at the same time.

The woman at the head of the table spoke for the first time. “Deliciosa.”

I sneaked a glance at her; she was thin and fashionable, with long fake eyelashes and bright red lips—too young to be the mother of the kids. She narrowed her eyes, catching me staring at her.

Here was another person that wished I wasn’t there.

I glanced at the girl across from me. The kid had long chocolate-colored braids, big brown eyes, and looked about seven. She dug into red rice with chunks of onion and tomato, shoveling it into her mouth on autopilot. Looking at her was weird; it was like seeing a picture of myself when I was younger.

Were these . . . relatives?

“My name is Antonia,” she said. “I always wanted a big sister.”

My stomach flipped, and bile filled my mouth. “I feel sick. I can’t do this.”

I dropped my napkin, pushed away from the table, and fled, shoving open one side of the dining room door, and running into the hall. Behind me, I heard an eruption of exclamations in Spanish: the woman screeched, the man yelled, the little girl called my name. “Malia! Malia!”

The sound of her calling made me run faster. I fled down the hall into the octagon entry room and turned left to the front door I remembered. I hauled it open, surprised it wasn’t locked. On the other side, wide flagstone steps led to a gravel turnaround in front of the house. Two men guarded the door; they were holding automatic rifles. They yelled at me in Spanish.

I hadn’t realized it was so dark outside, but the front of the house and the fancy garage were brightly lit with spotlights. I dodged past the guards and zoomed down the stairs, running hard in ballet flats I’d chosen from the many shoes in the closet. I made a beeline for the two cars parked in front of the garage. Maybe one of them would have the keys in the ignition.

The guards, their guns slung behind their shoulders on straps, chased and grabbed me by the arms as I ran around the back of the Ferrari after trying its locked door. I kicked, and went for their eyes, and tried to stomp on their insteps like my self-defense class said to do—but nothing worked.

The men were huge, strong, and wearing boots and body armor; I was in a dress and slippers. They picked me up between them and carried me into the house as I kicked and yelled.

The black-haired man who’d brought me here waited inside the octagonal entry. His arms were crossed on his chest; he looked displeased.

I felt that weird sense of recognition again.

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