58. Emily

58

EMILY

" D id I do what?" Even as I asked the question, I knew there was no point tiptoeing around the truth.

Marisela could smell a lie a mile away. Hell, the woman could practically taste it in the air. Like a cobra waiting to strike. All that was missing was the forked tongue. It was what made her so ruthless in the boardroom. What made it nearly impossible to pull away before she was already sinking her teeth into you.

It was also why I was standing in the middle of this fancy-ass version of some rich lady's living room, clinging on to the thinnest thread of hope that someone with more money than God wouldn't have the cops on speed dial. That I could find something to say that wouldn't have her throwing my ass out on her gilded doorstep before I had the chance to plead my pitiful case for mercy.

I mean, surely someone with a dead husband (allegedly) would understand the plight of someone with a very dead kinda boyfriend. At least that's the logic I was going with.

She quirked a manicured brow and gestured to the trash bag I was twisting around in my hands. "Whatever brought you here. Whatever you're hiding in there. Did you do it?"

"I… well, no," I fumbled over my words. "I didn't do anything. I swear."

She eyed me for a moment, the green rings around her pupils disappearing at the same time she scrutinized my every feature. Her nostrils flaring and her expression blank. I watched soundlessly as Marisela took a deep breath and threw an arm out towards the sofa. Then she pivoted on her heels, drawing the antique pocket doors closed and latching them in place. Before pinning me with another laser-sharp glare.

"Good. That makes things much easier. Now have a seat and start at the beginning. And, Emily?"

I peered up at the sound of my name.

"Do not leave anything out. The devil's always in the details, nena ."

I went as far back as college, way too sober to discuss everything that came before it. Truth was, no amount of liquor could dull my brain enough to bring up the topic of my mother and all the underlying trauma that came with being the daughter of an abusive drunk, whose boyfriends all seemed to prefer little girls warming their laps over the grown-ass woman they were supposed to be crawling into bed with at night.

Instead, I touched on my unhealthy relationship with a certain med student, dug deep into how it felt to suffer through the loss of a child on my own with no one to hold my hand or help me navigate the emotions that came with the fluctuating hormones, and admitted how humiliating it was to never hear from the son of a bitch again. I rattled off the name of every guy who never called back. Summarized every message that went unanswered and acknowledged every part I played in choosing walking-talking red flags with chiseled jawlines and the mommy issues to match.

I described that first night with Grant and the several strange interactions that followed it. Explained how I discovered that someone had not only killed him but chopped him up into tiny pieces, and then sent me his belongings—all wrapped up in grotesque gift boxes with perfectly creased corners and even edges. Like a psychopath's fucked-up version of arts and crafts.

How that same psychopath knew where I worked. Where I lived. How I wasn't safe. And how I had no one to turn to. So here I was, curled in on myself in my boss's parlor room, asking her what I should do. While we both knew what I was really asking her was how to cover up a crime I didn't commit but sure as hell looked good for.

Marisela's face remained a mask of indifference. No word too dark or depraved when it filtered through her ears. No unspoken implication perverse enough to draw a hint of emotion from her stoney demeanor. I could only imagine what this woman experienced in her life to remain so unaffected. But some deranged part of me was thankful she had experienced it.

I wasn't ready to deal with anyone's judgement right now. Instead, I needed someone to think logically. Take charge. And that was Marisela's exact area of expertise.

Her long perfectly painted nails tapped against the fabric of her white slacks, her bright-red lips even brighter when she pinched her mouth and hummed thoughtfully to herself. "Honestly, nena , the timing couldn't be better."

"I…" I forced down a barrage of questions before finally landing on one I could articulate. "For me to be a person of interest in an ongoing murder investigation?"

"Did you tell anyone else about this…" She twirled her wrist in the arm as if trying to decide on the word. "…boy?"

"Well, no?—"

"Then, I fail to see how you're an interest to anyone."

It was a statement, a hidden meaning, that landed like a one-two punch to my gut. Because she was right. I was just another name in Grant Nielson's little black book. That's really all I was to anyone anymore. I'd made myself disposable. A realization that had a rather sobering effect on my rattled nerves.

I dipped my chin with a curt nod, bending forward to grab the trash bag off her Persian rug when Marisela grabbed hold of my wrist to stop me. "How do you feel about Spain, Emily?"

"The country?"

One side of her mouth curled into a near smirk as she appeared to hold back whatever snarky response was on the tip of her tongue. "Yes, nena , the country."

"I'm not sure I feel any particular way. If I'm being honest, I've never stepped foot outside the midwest."

Marisela nodded once, something she did whenever she was certain she was on the winning side of an argument. "Then I think it's time you did."

I curled up in the back of the town car Marisela had hired to drop us off at the airport—I didn't care where we were going, just that we were getting away—and closed my eyes. The exhaustion taking over as the adrenaline seeped its way out of my system. Which left me trapped somewhere between the nightmares in my mind and the nightmares that had become my reality.

I also didn't know where the voices were coming from. Just that they were there. Making their way into my ear every now and then without carrying much significance. Almost like the language wasn't my own. Even though it was. It was a coping mechanism I'd learned as a kid. To tune out all the yelling and pretend like it didn't exist.

Sometimes, if I tried hard enough, it really didn't.

"Fuck me over and I'll fuck you harder. Or don't you remember?"

Marisela was hissing into the phone, her tone harsher than I'd ever heard it before. I was used to the eerily calm woman whose glare did the talking for her. So maybe I really was just imagining it. And the only voices I was hearing were the ones in my head. There was a reply. A distant shouting I couldn't quite make out before she spoke over it.

"Good luck keeping your dog on a leash when you have nothing to offer him anymore."

With that, my world went silent. And then I was drifting away from all the white noise. While inching closer to the demons that always seemed to be chasing after me. In some form or another.