“So…you were born in America,” I say, feeling a smirk come to my lips.
His eyes meet mine as he sets the bottle back down. He lifts his glass of wine toward me. “Muy bien. You managed to get something out of me. Yes, I was born in America.”
“But…leaving at five? Either you had really good retention or language classes in Spain are superior to ours. You have an accent, but you have the lingo down perfectly.”
“In my profession, it pays to be fluent in several languages, with English being the most likely suspect. A proper education, too many American movies, and most importantly, a driving motivation helped the process along. But enough about me, let’s talk about you.”
“That wasn’t even subtle.” I laugh before taking a bite of my hamburger. Thankfully the earlier queasiness from whatever hangover I had is long gone. The headache persists, though, so I try a sip of the wine.
Enrique considers me as he cuts into his steak. “Risk versus reward.”
“What do you mean by that?” I ask after swallowing.
“I mean that if I tell you about myself, I reveal more secrets that I find necessary to continue to keep hidden from you. However, you telling me more about yourself, for example, family life with the Montoyas, gives nothing away that I probably couldn’t now easily discover via a Google search.”
“Firstly, I fail to see the reward part of all of that. Secondly, how do you know I don’t have more to hide about my personal life?”
“As for the reward, I prefer conversation with my meal. Something tells me you are itching to talk as well. I’m thinking that silent act built up a lot of unreleased hot air.”
I narrow my eyes at him, which makes him laugh.
“As for having something left to hide, I know for a fact that you’re holding something back. But it isn’t about your family. So tell me, what was your childhood like?”
How the hell has he figured so much out? Specifically, that I do have something left to hide, and no, it isn’t about my family.
“I’m very good at reading people,” he says with a smirk before popping a piece of steak into his mouth.
I just sip my wine, eyeing him with suspicion over the rim. For some reason, his smirk only broadens. When he swallows, he actually chuckles.
“For example,” he says, picking up his glass of wine. “Every time you take a sip of wine, I know you’re hiding something. It’s a good thing we aren’t playing poker.”
I bring the glass down to the table, enough to cause it to swish around.
Enrique laughs and takes a sip of his wine. I busy myself with my hamburger to keep from saying anything. Maybe that silent act was for the best. Who knows what’s likely to come out of my mouth tonight.
His expression transforms into one of thoughtful consideration. “How about I sweeten the deal?”
I’m chewing, so I just skeptically raise one eyebrow.
“I’m pretty good at figuring things out. You tell me about your family, and I bet I can guess what’s going on there. Specifically, I can probably find out who your father’s enemy is and why he’s doing what he’s doing.”
That’s enough to slow my chewing until it comes to a stop, the mush of hamburger and bun sitting in my mouth like a tasteless blob.
I’ve spent far too much time trying to wrap my head around my family’s tragic legacy. Conjecture and supposition have filled in most of the blanks, but have also left me frustrated without any confirmation from my father.
Enrique is a lot of things, but stupid is not one of them. At the very least, it would be a second head going to work on fitting the pieces together. He might even know of a way to put an end to it all.
I’ve told him this much already, what harm could it do to tell him everything else?
Everything except the one I made a vow to my father about.
“Okay, I’ll tell you.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven Enrique
I feel my anticipation build when Leira agrees to tell me about her family. I don’t know why, since it has absolutely no bearing on my circumstances. Then again, there’s still a sliver of a chance that the people in my apartment and on my boat are after her.
She sets her half-eaten hamburger down and takes a deep breath.
“Like I said, my father is in importing and exporting.” She gives me a hard look, daring me to challenge that.
I simply wave my fork without comment, encouraging her to continue.
“He started in Mexico, working at a hotel as a night clerk. He gradually worked his way up to manager, and when he had enough money, he bought a grocery store.” She shrugs. “From there, it’s the usual of growing and expanding, one store, then another, and another. He finally sold it all and moved to California, specifically Los Angeles, and started a small importing-exporting business that eventually grew into shipping.”
I definitely have certain theories about this business background of his, mostly because of how secretive he seems to be with his own daughter. It’s the perfect rags-to-riches tale to beguile the average American into complacency. Almost too perfect. I keep this thought to myself. The last thing I need is Leira going back to playing the silent routine.
“And your mother? What about her?” Maybe there will be some insight here.
“She was born in the People’s Republic of the Congo,” Leira announces, as though it’s a fascinating factoid, which it is. “Adopted by Catholics who were doing missionary work there at the time. She was left at an orphanage, so I don’t know her background beyond that.”
Leira pauses for a moment as though to reflect on that. “It’s strange, having no history. My father was an orphan. So was my mom, in a way. I’ve always had this weird, slightly unsettled feeling like I never belonged in any particular world because of it, especially in America, where
