Page 53 of Speak No Claim

“Please, Deja!” With praying hands, I expressed, “You want me on my knees too? Just give me something, please...”

She glanced all around the garage, blinking one eye at me. It was her subtle way of letting me know she couldn’t share anything there. We were being watched, giving me hope that maybe she’d actually answer my questions.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she lied. “I’m sorry, I can’t help you with that, but I can help you with your arm…”

I faintly nodded, inhaling a deep breath before following her inside.

Her mansion looked the same. Nothing was out of place, similar to my uncle’s. Their staff was everywhere, but nobody looked in my direction. Deja wrapped a new towel around my wound. Luckily, it hadn’t bled through, but something told me the staff would’ve still minded their own business if it had. They were paid to.

Once we were in her bedroom, I felt a little safer, if that made any sense. She rushed into her bathroom, exiting with a first-aid kit in her hands. Her room was the size of someone’s whole house. It was what I’d imagine her suite would look like. It was very her, with the over-the-top gold details in the build and the furniture.

I could tell every piece of furniture and the decor was passed down. She held millions of dollars’ worth of antique pieces alone. From the paintings on the walls to the sixteenth-century rugs and the seventeenth-century gold canopy bed frame. It just screamed wealth. It looked like a queen lived in there.

Part of me wanted to know their significance, and the researcher in me was dying to take a closer look at the beauty before me. It was like a historical museum you’d see in Italy or Spain with cathedral ceilings and gold, avant-garde design and layout.

She handed me a bottle of 1942 tequila, yanking my attention back to her.

“You’re going to need it. This is going to hurt.”

I did as I was told, chugging down a few swigs. The liquor flowed through my chest, warming up my insides. I was used to drinking Peruvian liquor, Pisco, so this was new to me. She crouched to the floor by my feet, sitting on her knees while she pulled out a needle and thread.

“Whoa…” I called out. “You know how to stitch?”

“I could…” she warily replied. “But you’d probably pass out from the pain. You’re not my brother or his Brotherho…” she corrected herself, “friends.”

Quickly feeling the effects of the alcohol, I questioned, “How often do you stitch up your brother?”

She sighed, rummaging through the kit. “Often enough.”

“Why?”

She shrugged. “He’s a dumbass.”

“So he gets into fights?”

She shrugged again. “He does fence and crossbow. Not just for the Academy, but for competitions and stuff…” She changed the subject, pulling out a tube. “I have medical adhesive. It’ll hold the edges of your cut as long as you don’t keep ripping it open. It’ll heal too.”

“You’re just going to glue me back together, Deja?”

“I can if you want me to. If not, I can call our family doctor to make a house call. Your decision.”

“No.” I shook my head. “I don’t want this getting back to my uncle.”

“How are you going to hide it from him?”

“Considering I’ve barely seen him in the last five weeks, I highly doubt it’s going to be an issue.”

“I hate to break this to you, Hennessy… odds are, your uncle already knows.”

“How?”

“Secrets don’t stay hidden here.”

“Except for mine, right?”

She ignored my question, throwing back her own, “How about you tell me what happened while I fix you up because I don’t know.”

I didn’t waver. “Can I trust you, Deja? Are we friends?”