I step out of the coveralls, open the oven that will be used to burn the removed skin, and shove them inside. That was very anticlimactic. I wanted him to scream. I wanted to hear his pain. But when I saw the determination mixed with the acceptance of his fate on his face, I knew I wasn’t going to get that out of him.
I head to the sink and scrub my hands, the water turning red as the blood washes away. By the time I’m walking out, Paz has three guys dragging Enrique from the warehouse. I get in the car and head back up the hill. It’s about a five-minute drive from the main house. Somewhere I don’t ever plan on showing Evie. This property is huge. The only part she needs to know about is the main house and gardens. The rest, well, nothing good ever happens on the outer edge of the property.
I walk into the house and find Maria in the kitchen. “Did Evie come down?” I ask her.
Maria shakes her head. “No, she hasn’t come out of the room.”
“Okay, I’ll take something up to her.” I open the fridge, and pull out a bottle of water and a prepared bowl of mixed fruits. Evie hasn’t eaten in a while, so she has to be hungry.
When I walk into the bedroom, my heart sinks when I don’t see her on the bed. I drop the water and the fruit bowl on the dresser and run into the bathroom. I expect to find her on the floor. Surrounded by blood. Thank fuck I don’t. She’s not in there. The light in the closet has me heading in that direction.
That’s where I find her. On the floor, surrounded by pictures. Pictures she was never meant to see.
“Evie?” I call out to get her attention.
“W-what are these?” she asks, her voice shaking as she picks up some of the photos.
Fuck. How do I even explain this to her?
I run a hand through my hair. “You weren’t supposed to see those.”
“I figured that much, Emmanuel. Why do you have all these photos of me?”
I sit down in front of her. Taking a deep breath, I try to find the words to explain to her just how deep my obsession with her goes. I don’t want to lie to her, but I also don’t want to lose her either. Fucking hell.
“I first saw you when you were sixteen,” I explain. “It was a year after Laura died, and I—you were there. In Vegas, in an evening gown with a crown on your head. The most beautifully haunting image I’ve ever seen.” I pick up a photo, the one photo that isn’t of her. “I thought you were Laura. I followed you that night and waited outside the hotel. But when you came out the next morning, something had changed. You looked even more like her, broken. Troubled.”
I shake my head, trying to clear the memory.
“I was only sixteen. I didn’t have a lot of power at the time, but I hired someone to follow you, just to make sure you weren’t her. They assured me you weren’t.”
“I’m not Laura,” Evie whispers.
“I know that. At the time, I was convinced I was losing my mind. I kept my distance. But I printed out every picture I could find. I wanted to believe so bad that you were her. That she got out and was alive somehow. It’s why I didn’t try to learn your name. I didn’t want to let go of the possibility. I also didn’t want to put you at risk by getting too close,” I admit. “But then you showed up in Vegas again. The night we met.”
Evie looks up at me, her eyes wet with unshed tears. She’s hurt, and it’s because of me. Fucking hell.
“I couldn’t let you go a second time.”
She shakes her head. “I’m not her,” she repeats.
“I know.”
“Do you?” she asks. “You’re using me to replace someone you lost. That’s not love, Emmanuel. That’s… you trying to erase your grief.”
“I’m not fucking using you for shit, Evie. I love you. Evie Carter, soon-to-be Evie Lopez. I don’t want you to be her. She was weak. She wasn’t strong enough for this life. She wasn’t a fighter. You know why I know you’re not her? Because you are strong, the strongest person I know. You don’t quit. You fight for your happiness and you fight for those you love. Laura didn’t fight, Evie. You do. Besides looks, there is nothing similar about you and Laura.” I wave the photo around.
“Do you have pictures of her?” Evie asks.
“This is the only one.”
Her brows furrow. She squints at the image in my hand. Then she shakes her head. “That’s me, Emmanuel.”
“No, it’s Laura. You look just like her, Evie, eerily so. But I took this photo myself. I know it’s Laura.”
“I don’t understand,” she says. “My mom has that exact picture of me in her living room.”
“That’s impossible,” I tell her. Her mother cannot have this picture. “There were only two copies. I kept one, and Laura had one.”
