My limbs tremble against the wall and an ache pounds through my ribs, spreading agony through my torso, but I don’t say a word. It’s okay to let my ego take a blow for now. He’ll get what’s coming to him.
“I expect you to lead me to the cash tomorrow,” he says, his face finally smoothing over.
His fingers unstick from my throat, and I collapse like a stone to the ground, crumpling into a heap at his feet. Rafael’s cold laughter brings another surge of fury to my heart, but I force myself to calm down.
Don’t let him see.
The fridge opens and I hear the clinking sound of bottles. Dread sinks my stomach as the telltale hiss of a bottle opening catches my attention. He’s going to get drunk and stupid again, if he isn’t already. I pick myself off the floor and limp toward the bathroom, hoping that he’ll stay in the living room and zone out in front of the television. A vision of myself confronting him with a weapon burns my mind.
I’m going to die. Sooner or later, he’s going to kill me—whether by accident or on purpose. I could see him kicking me one too many times and breaking my neck.
The bathroom door closes behind me and I twist the lock, wincing at the sudden beams of light overhead. The mirror reflects the image of a broken woman. Her dark-brown hair hangs like a nest around her face, which looks like a disaster. Swollen cheeks and blood in her left eye, whose eyelid is sunken over. Busted lip. I lift up my shirt, revealing a large, angry red mark on my abdomen.
I don’t recognize the girl in the mirror. She looks like those women you feel sorry for—the ones who keep going back to their abusive partners, over and over again.
When did it get this bad?
There were little things. Signs. A disrespectful comment here and there. Then, finally, he hit me. He slapped me across the face when I disagreed with him about something. My dad was still alive then. He was overcome with remorse. Please don’t tell your dad! I remember well how he cried and blubbered like a baby. At the time, it touched me how strong his remorse was, and I decided to forgive him.
Now I know that I was just a moron. He wasn’t fucking sorry. He was piss-scared that I was going to tell my dad, who would have gutted him, and he would have been absolutely right to do it.
Any idiot could have seen through him, but I actually thought I loved him. He was the guy brave enough to ask me out, before asking my father for permission. In the beginning, he made me feel special.
The horror in the mirror reflects only a few months of abuse. What do you think he’ll do in a few more? Coldness slowly freezes my veins like liquid nitrogen.
If I went back to Vincent, maybe he’d be able to help.
And maybe he wouldn’t.
Raf told me he’d kill me if I went back to his boss. Christ, my own sister won’t even help me. How pathetic is that? What should I do?
You need to get him before he gets you.
Simply running away won’t work. Raf is psycho enough to follow me wherever I go. No, I need help.
You have a hundred grand buried in the backyard at Mom’s house. Dad showed you where he buried it because he trusted you above everyone else.
My insides freeze, my mouth suddenly dry. I’m horrified by the cold voice in my head, but it keeps talking.
You could hire someone to take care of him. Someone who might understand your situation.
Hire someone to kill Rafael? I swallow hard, studying the cuts and bruises on my face. Am I willing to walk down that road?
This is life or death. Yours or his. Choose.
Mine, I reply to the voice automatically. A twinge of guilt stirs in my chest at how quick my reply was. Going to the police is not an option. My dad went to the police, and look what they did to him.
I shut my eyes and think hard, trying to remember any friends of Dad’s who might be able to help. Sometimes there would be visitors from out of town at the house. A man—the boss in Montreal—was close with my dad. He spoke with an Italian-French accent, and was always friendly to me.
It’s a desperate move.
I don’t really have anywhere else to go.
* * *
I don’t sleep all night. My body curls on the side of the bed, facing the blank wall. Everything inside me is like a coiled spring, ready to bounce the moment the coast is clear. In my head, I think about where everything is—my passport, the duffel bags, my clothes, shoes, and most importantly, the cash in the backyard.
Rafael’s hand lies on my shoulder heavily. “Hey, what’s wrong with you?”
I hope that he can’t see my face in the dark, because if he did, he’d be offended by the disgust curling my lip. “I’m in pain.”
It’s not untrue. My whole fucking body aches, especially my head. The two aspirin I took didn’t make a fucking dent.