“Nothing comes free,” he said mildly. “As you’ve told me many times before.”
I waited, practically having to sit on my hands to keep myself from snatching the weapon back. Yves tucked it away, and I knew I’d never see the gun again.
“The day after tomorrow, four in the morning.” He drank his whiskey down to the last drop, set the glass on the table. “I hope your buyer gets what he wants.”
Then with a small salute, he stood and left the room.
A server immediately appeared, a man dressed in a floor-length tunic, and told me what I owed—for my drink and the incredible amount Yves had consumed. “Fucker,” I muttered as I rummaged through my pockets, searching for the last of my bills. Maybe Iwouldfollow him down an alley. From the corner of my eye, I sensed a figure brush past, dropping coins as they went. The money clattered against the wood of the coffee table, and I glanced up sharply in time to see the shadow of someone slinking out of the room, nearly made invisible by the curls of smoke and patrons crowding the entrance.
I jumped to my feet, quickly counting the amount, realizing a moment later it was exactly what I owed. Without another glance at the server, I rushed forward, leaving that room and then the next, bounding out into the night. I reached for my gun before remembering I’d traded it for information.
“Shit,” I hissed.
Both ends of the street were unnaturally empty. Nothing and no one moved. I backed up a few steps, my heart thundering wildly, until my shoulders hit a stone wall. I waited, sure my stalker would appear any second from their hiding place. Whoever they were, they had been close enough to hear my conversation with Yves—every word. Why else would they drop the exact amount of money we owed?
Onto the damn coffee table.
Right in front of me.
Ten minutes passed, then fifteen. My breathing was even and soft, and I thought of reaching for the knife hidden in my boot. I sensed they werewatching for any movement, waiting to hear the brush of clothing. Another ten minutes passed, and I remained coiled tight, ready to spring at the slightest provocation.
But no one materialized in the dark.
The room was quiet when I returned, both women sleeping on the bed, ensconced in the mosquito netting. I barely managed to keep from knocking into one of the stacked boxes surrounding the narrow cot. Quietly, I sank onto the bed, peeling off my jacket, unlacing my boots, before slumping backward, forgetting that my makeshift sleeping arrangements didn’t include a pillow. The back of my head hit a spring.
“Ow,” I muttered.
I tried to sleep, but the glimpse of my stalker stayed with me. I’d felt, rather than seen, them walk past the table. By the time I’d looked up, they were walking out of the room—a black coat, hat. I replayed the moment over and over, but no other details came.
The lack of them kept me up for the rest of the night.
CAPÍTULO DIEZ
There are only a few sounds in the world that make me quake in fear. The scrape of rock against the entrance of a tomb. The hiss of gunpowder before the inevitable explosion. A bullet fired, followed by the telltale whistling noise of impending death.
And one other.
Tía Lorena’s voice.
I heard it distinctly, and I sat up straight in the wicker chair out front on the terrace of Shepheard’s, where my sister and I were having our morning tea. Isadora glanced at me, her brow crinkled in puzzlement. Loud footsteps approached from behind, the echo of my aunt’s exclamations roaring in my ear. I turned in my seat with trepidation to find a familiar face gazing down at me.
My aunt.
And behind her, the cold face of my cousin Amaranta.
I jumped to my feet, swaying sharply, tears clouding my vision. I knew this day would arrive eventually—the inevitable confrontation with Elvira’s grief-stricken mother and sister—but I hadn’t expected it so soon. But of course they would come.
Come to collect Elvira’s body.
“Inez,” Tía Lorena murmured. She gazed at me in confusion, hands trembling as she reached for me. “You look so different.”
Words left me, stolen by the sense of despair rising in me. I could only stand in front of them both and wait for their judgment—I deserved nothing less than total condemnation.
“I’m so sorry,” I gasped. “Lo siento—”
My aunt stumbled forward and embraced me, arms tight around my waist, her wet cheek pressed to my own. She sobbed quietly, her body shaking. I couldn’t stop my own tears, and together we clung on to each other for dear life, right there in the middle of the terrace, with dozens of people staring at the scene in confused astonishment.
I hardly cared, but it was when my vision cleared enough to catch sight of Amaranta that I finally tried to get a hold of my overwrought emotions. She wouldn’t appreciate my tears. She hadn’t come for that.
