My body is planted against the wall. Hunter green eyes glare down at me. “What were you saying? Repeat yourself, Aria!”
“Kill me,” I threaten. “More paintings of you are here. More photos than you can conceive of finding after disposing of my body.”
“Kill you?” Dominic calls me crazy beautiful, serenading me with an imaginary Spanish guitar. The backs of his knuckles run like soothing leather across my cheek.
When I tremble, he stops murmuring sweet words in my ear. He rubs his index and thumb finger together. “You’re crying, Aria. Look at those big brown eyes, so surprised. You weren’t aware?”
He knots his fingers into my hair, baring my throat and vulnerable pulse to his lips. More Spanish words float from his devious mouth. He presses his mouth along my cheek. I become attune to my tears. This is how the other women die, so caught up in the rapture of him; they lose themselves.
As I’ve said, I know these things.
I’ve watched, waiting for Dominic to break another pretty soul—because I’d pounce before he consumed her.
His gaze dances over mine, spearing me against the wall further. “You begging me to tear you apart, Aria?”
“No,” I whimper.
“You’re crying. I have yet to rip you to shreds. Should I break you, chula?”
My heart shutters to a stop. There was one thing in this world I obsessed over before the sight of Dominic Angel Alvarez. The disappearance of ReAnna.
For the rest of my life, I’ll obsess over her. Had I not breathed life prior to her, would the shame claw so deep? It’s too late for questions, too late to save my twin. Now, I’ve vowed to rescue Dominic’s women.
“Mami, should I show you what happens to bad girls, si?”
“Try me!” I cling to convictions I never knew I had. This second obsession of mine won’t extend as long as the first one. Justice will be served with my death. Aside from the photos and sketches, I have notes, a virtual journal set on a timer. The media calls him El Santos. El Diablo’s more appropriate. Dominic’s balls are in a vice grip, and he doesn’t know it. Fuck spending another breath on this earth. My life can end now.
Aria
Six months ago…
“Nunaya damn business,” was the first phrase, and only instance, in which I’d heard Gramps cuss. He said it in the heat of the search for ReAnna. People would ask my grandparents if I was the other girl.
The sister.
The twin.
The one who failed ReAnna, their faces read. Though my shrink refuted the statement for years, I’ve silently lived by it. I vow not to be a failure again.
The night after ReAnna disappeared, anything my mom touched, she beat me with. “The police don’t look too hard for little black girls. It’s your fault we will never see ReAnna again,” she declared.
On occasion, your fault claws at my ears too.
My family crumbled a few a weeks into the search. Momma broke first, Dad next. Before the tragedy, he was the kind of dad that you perched your toes on his as you dance, and you’re so young, naïve, you feel like a little princess. Also, you wonder if you’re crushing his toes no matter how much of a giant he looks while wrapping his arms around you.
Dad promised always to be there. He said I wasn’t to blame. Though not as many times as my therapist drilled in how my actions hadn’t made him an alcoholic.
My grandparents took me in about a month into the search. But it was years after my grandparents relocated us from San Antonio to Miami that I learned Dad died a drunk.
Nevertheless, no more, “nunya damn business,” from Gramps. Still, his token cuss word became my life, until now.
***
I stand before the mirror, shoving my face into a smile. It looks psychotic, like the Joker in any movie where he failed at slaying Batman.
My roasted almond complexion glows despite days of working in a dark room. The balcony has become my solace since renting this place for less than a month. My only source of vitamin D when I refuse to leave home.
I push my hair around. The crinkled tresses fall against my cheeks and tickle at the edges of my thick lips, prompting an almost smile.
My cellphone buzzes in my linen pants. I glance at it. Biting my lip, I contemplate not answering Roslyn, my token friend. This is a social call, and I’m a real-life hermit. I answer with an uncertain, “Hey?”
“Hey, you? Get your ass down here, Ari’.”
I huff. We met in junior high. She dropped bits of everyone’s names, including mine, always dragging me to the next pointless introduction.
I snigger. “I left my house yesterday because of you, no thank you!”
“So? Your ass is leaving today. Zumba, first. Later, the skirts I’ve selected will show half our ass cheeks at the—”
I hang up. Seconds later, I wait for her call. We’re pros at tug of war. Roslyn is the woman I wish I could live vicariously through—wish—because she forces me to live. She’s bold enough to breathe life into me once a week.
The phone screen dims. Oh crap. My new roommate, Miranda, abhors guests. The doorman has strict orders from Miranda, and he also has eyes.
The Puerto Rican Roslyn is the magic of all Latina and African beauty. I move away from the mirror in my loft bathroom. I pass the Pinterest worthy claw foot tub and through a bedroom that is also dream goals to Pinners.
The elevator to our apartment is only accessible by us. I stand against a pillar vase, then shuffle away from it. Miranda has her requests. Don’t touch this; don’t even breathe on that.
I glance across the way to the double doors of the witch’s room. She’s here. Vampires sleep in the daytime and suck . . . certain things . . .
