“You never said anything.” His tone carries the barest hint of pain, and my heart squeezes.
“I know. I’m sorry. But he sent me information on my birth father. A flash drive with his name, date of birth, and last known address on it. I never opened it. I didn’t need to.You’remy father.”
“Dani, you know your mother and I love you. You’re our daughter, and nothing will ever change that. If you’re going to ask me for permission to meet this guy, you have it. Not that you need it.”
“I can’t meet him. But I do want to find out more about him. I opened the drive last night. I needed to feel closer to Gil, and he obviously wanted me to have this.”
“Go for it, sweetheart. Nothing you find is going to make us love you any less. Your Mom and I believe you choose your family. That’s why we adopted you and Gil in the first place. Because you needed a home and we had one to give. But what do you mean youcan’tmeet him?”
“He’s in prison in Venezuela.”
“Prison?” My father clears his throat. “Not sure I like where this is heading, squirt. Why is he in prison?”
“I didn’t dig into it much yet. I wanted to talk to you first. The rumors are that he was arrested for speaking out against the Venezuelan government’s human rights violations. That he’s been taken to The Crypt—one of the worst prisons in the world—and is being tortured.”
A whistle carries over the line. “You smell a story.”
My cheeks heat, and I run a hand through my hair. “I do. And I want to follow it.”
The man who lost one son to a black ops mission where his other son was tortured and almost killed sighs. “Be careful, sweetheart. That’s all I ask. As far as I’m concerned, the only good thing Venezuela’s ever done for our family is give us you and Gil. After that...”
“I know, Dad. I love you.”
“Love you too, squirt. Keep me posted.”
“Will do.” After my father disconnects the call, I sink down onto my couch and stare out the window towards the Potomac. I’m really going to do this. Find my birth father and maybe, get a hell of a story out of it along the way.
* * *
Two days later,after almost non-stop research, I have my pitch ready to go. With my notebook and my favorite pen in hand, I rap on my editor’s office door. “Lincoln? Do you have a minute?”
He’s leaning back in his chair with his feet propped up on the radiator, a sign he’s in full-on idea mode. “Sure. Come on in.” Studying me, a gleam appears in his dark hazel eyes. “You have a lead, don’t you? Something big?”
“Maybe.” After I shut the door, I perch on the edge of his visitor’s chair. “I want to do a story on theDemocrática Resistenciain Venezuela. With a spotlight on one of their leaders, Luis Rojas.”
“Who?” Lincoln plants his feet firmly on the floor and slides his keyboard closer before typing in my father’s name. “He’s in prison.”
“It’s worse than that. He’s in The Crypt. I got confirmation this morning. And…I think I can get in there to interview him.” I wish I’d brought my thinking putty with me. I’m so excited about this story I can barely sit still, and I tap my pen incessantly against the top of my notebook.
“Holy shit, Dani. The Crypt’s a hell hole. I don’t want you down there.”
“I’m Venezuelan.”
Lincoln blinks at me as if I’ve just told him I’m from Mars. I don’t advertise my heritage. I don’t hide it either, but my slightly darker-than-white skin, brown eyes, and black hair mean most people have no idea what ethnicity I am. I prefer it that way. Being American is the only thing I’ve ever known, so whether my parents were from Venezuela or Antartica never really meant a lot to me. Until now. “My mother was American, and my father was Venezuelan. I was born in Venezuela, just outside of Caracas. The Pritchards adopted me when I was nine.”
“Do you have dual citizenship?” Lincoln sits forward and his brows crease.
“No. I qualify, I believe. But I’d need to find proof of my birthplace, and all I have is a small diary my birth mother left for me and Gil when she abandoned us at a church in El Paso.”
Lincoln shakes his head. “It’s still too dangerous.”
Giving him a “you can’t be serious” look, I yank up the sleeve of my red sweater to show him the long, angry scar that stretches from just below my elbow to the middle of my forearm. “I got this on assignment in Afghanistan, remember? Embedded with the 82ndAirborne? A stray bullet outside of Kabul. I’m not afraid of a little danger. Not with what’s at stake.”
“What’s at stake? Dani, Luis Rojas is in prison for opposing the Farías regime. There’s nothing ‘at stake’ here.”
Anger flares, heat gathering in my chest as I grip my pen tightly. “A man’s life is nothing? Luis Rojas is probably being tortured for wanting all of the Venezuelan people treated likepeople. And sinceI’mtechnically one of those people—or could have easily been one, had my mother not returned to the United States—I think there’s a hell of a lot at stake.”
Lincoln’s mouth flattens, and his hazel eyes darken. “You want to travel to the country with the highest number of kidnappings in the world and interview someone the government would rather see dead—or tortured—than alive. I can’t let you go alone and I can’t send a photographer with you.”
