Page 26 of Girl in the Water
“You’ll be fine,” he’d said. “I’ll be back before you know it.”
But it hadn’t been fine. What happened after he’d left was so far from fine, he didn’t have a word for it.
His head pounded harder. He had to squeeze his eyes shut as he stood, because movement made the pain worse. There had to be a place somewhere in the neighborhood that sold liquor. Tequila was the same word in every language, right? Somebody would point him in the right direction.
But as he cautiously opened his eyes so he could leave, his gaze fell on Daniela. She was squirming on her seat, chewing her bottom lip.
“What’s wrong?” He spoke quietly, but each word was like a cannon shot in his head anyway.
She immediately stilled. “Nothing, Senhor Slaney.”
She could control her actions but couldn’t hide the worry in her large green eyes. Worry tinged with fear.
He silently cursed, sat back down, then handed her one of the forks. “Just Ian. Dig in.”
He waited until she hesitantly did go for the food, because he had a fair idea that otherwise, she’d hold out for leftovers. He hated that she expected him to treat her like a dog.Had Finch?Dammit, he didn’t want to think that about his friend.
He wanted to ask her about the day Finch died, but he didn’t want to scare her out of her wits by starting with murder, so he asked, “So, you always lived around here?”
And was glad he did, because her shoulders did relax a little as she told him about her mother, Ana, and her village, then the trip with Pedro down the river.
Of course, then, the more she said, the more Ian wished he hadn’t asked.
Pedro. A fucking bastard who’d sold her to some whorehouse, apparently. Ian hoped he might run into the man while he was here. He seriously wanted to punch something, and Pedro’s face would be as satisfying a choice as he could imagine.
Then Daniela told him about Rosa bringing her to Santana and giving her to Finch, and by that time, Ian’s stomach was flooded with acid, so he gave up on breakfast.
If Finch was alive, Ian might have strangled his friend himself, even if Daniela had nothing but praise for him, and told Ian how happy she’d been, how Finch had never even beaten her and fed her every day.
Because Ian couldn’t handle the praise, he said, “Tell me how he was killed.”
And then they were suddenly at murder.
Daniela paled. “I don’t know, Senhor Ian. I came home, and he was dead.”
She’d told him as much yesterday. He needed more. “You didn’t see anybody?”
“A man came to the door the day before. And he watched the house the day before that.”
“Did you tell Finch?”
“Sim, Senhor Ian.”
“What did Finch say?”
“He said I should go away for a few days.” She hung her head. “But I came back in the night,” she muttered, tucking in her neck as if expecting to be punished for the disobedience. “Senhor Finch was dead.”
Ian pushed for details and got more than he bargained for when she gave him a full description. Slivers of bamboo under the fingernails. And a cut-off ear.
Tortured. Christ.Finch had been twenty-seven. Too damn young to die, and even with all the stupid things he’d done in his life, he hadn’t deserved to die like that.
Dark fury choked Ian. The desperate need for a drink pounded in his head, using it for a punching bag. Left hook, right hook, uppercut. He squinted against the sunlight pouring in the windows. “What did the man who came to the door look like?”
“He was a goat man,” she said, touching her chin.
“He had a goatee?”
“Yes, like a goat’s, dark. And big ears that held up his hat.”
