At this point, he has managed to put enough distance between Damiano and us that I don’t think they’ll ever find us.
I keep my forehead pressed against the side window glass, which vibrates in a steady buzz that numbs my brain. I sit there not uttering a word except for when Julian asks me if I’m okay. And he would do so now and then, reaching over to squeeze my shoulder, reassuring me we’re safe.
The scenery outside has changed. The lush lemon groves of the villa are long gone, replaced by limestone cliffs.
I’m waiting for the weight of it to hit me. For the scream to tear its way out of my throat, but there’s nothing but silence. I can’t make anything out of what happened. Or maybe I’m just finally numb.
Every moment Damiano and I spent together is replaying in the back of my head like a broken record. I can still feel his fingers caressing the line of my jaw when he confessed he lovedme. Since then, I could have sworn he would have walked into a fire for me.
But now he wants to kill me. A chill washes over me, making my skin prick.
She’s my vengeance now.
His words play like a loop as I try to decipher their meaning.
“Ya casi llegamos, Kat,”Julian says, his voice filtering through my thoughts.
I nod, but I don’t look at him. I can’t. If I look at him, reality will settle in, and I’m not sure I can face it yet.
“Where?” I whisper, my voice exhausted.
“A safehouse,” he says.
We turn off the main road, the tires crunching onto a gravel path that resembles a goat track. The Jeep lurches and sways as we climb steep inclines. We pass by overgrown bougainvilleas and ancient olive trees that look like twisted limbs in the half-light.
After about an hour, we come to a clearing and find an old stone cottage precariously perched on the edge of a cliff. Its exterior is a patchwork of rough, sun-bleached limestone and falling mortar. The window frames have sea-salt-damaged paint clinging to dear life, while their white shutters are crooked as if they’ve lost the fight with the Mediterranean wind.
Julian kills the engine, and the abrupt silence makes my ears ring. He reaches over, his hand pausing for a second before it captures mine. His skin is warm, but it brings me no comfort.
“You’re safe now, Kat. I promise.Nadie te va a encontrar aquí.” No one will find you here.
Before I can respond, a sharp buzz cuts through the quiet. In the center console, Julian’s phone illuminates from a call. The screen glows in the car’s darkness.
UNKNOWN NUMBER
His jaw tightens, a small muscle twitching in his cheek. He reaches out, his thumb swiping on the screen to decline the call. Then he grabs the phone and shoves it into his pocket.
“Who was that?” I ask when he comes to my door to help me out of the car.
“Spam,” he says quickly. “Scammers don’t care if you’re running for your life. Come on. Let’s get you inside.”
The air, cold and salty, hits my face as soon as Julian opens the car door. The front door groans on its rusty iron hinges, opening into a small, sparsely furnished room that smells like dust and mildew. The place looks like a time capsule, untouched for the last ten years. The floor is made of uneven terracotta tiles. In the center sits a low wooden table topped with a single, rusty gas lamp. Along the far wall, there’s a small hearth built of blackened river stones.
“How did you find this place?” I ask Julian as he locks the door behind us, using his cellphone as a flashlight.
“Connections.”
He takes off a white cloth covering what looks like an armchair, the only piece of furniture that looks remotely soft. He finds a heavy wool blanket in an old closet and drapes it on my back as I take a seat. I sit there quietly as my eyes scan the room.
Julian drops my duffel on the floor before he goes to check the mini kitchen’s cupboards. When he comes back, he has a box of matches in his hand. He lights the gas lamp on the center table and works on the fireplace, trying to get a fire going.
When he gets the fire going, he takes off his jacket, removes the cloth covering another chair, and sits down.
He stares at me for a long time before saying, “Are you okay?”
“Why was he so angry? On the recording, he spoke as if hehatedme. Like I hurt him. What did I do?”
He lets out a slow breath before leaning his elbows on his knees, crossing his fingers together between them.
