“What does that mean, Leira?” Lucinda repeats, giving me a hard look.
“Why hasn’t Dad come for you yet?”
“What?”
“By now, he should have done something to get you back. In fact, I fully expected to find you dead when I came back home. But you’re still alive.”
“You say that like you want to see me dead,” she snaps.
“I don’t but—”
“Leira,” she says, her brow wrinkling with pain. “You have no idea what these weeks have been like for me. The torture I’ve had to endure.”
I scan the flawless skin exposed in nothing but her underwear. Not so much as a bruise, let alone any signs of torture. My eyes come to rest on the bra and underwear, black lacy things that look more attractive than they probably feel.
“Oh my God!” I gasp, skittering away from her. “You and…Richard?”
Her face goes slack with surprise. “Don’t be ridiculous, Leira. Why in the world would I be involved with him?”
“That’s a good question,” I say in an accusatory tone.
She stares at me a moment longer with a pained expression on her face. Just when I’m beginning to think maybe I’ve misconstrued the situation, it transitions into a sneer.
“You stupid girl,” she spits. “Now you’ve ruined everything.”
My heart stops for several beats. “Why?” I manage to whisper.
At least now I know how Richard knew about Dad’s attorney, enough to convince me the policeman was legit. But how did he know I was in Barcelona in the first place?
“It doesn’t matter,” she replies, twisting to sit back against the wall and face forward.
“He killed our mother, two of your sisters!” I scream.
She turns to give me an insolent look. “He didn’t kill our mother or Lorraine. That was an accident.”
“Is that what he told you?” I retort. “And what about Layla?”
She turns to stare ahead again, practically boring a hole into the wall to avoid looking at me. “Layla just…she wouldn’t tell him! The shooting was an accident. He said he didn’t mean to do it.”
“Another convenient lie.”
“Stop it!” She snarls, turning to me with an angry look. “Just…tell us what Dad told you, and he’ll let you go!”
“And you call me the stupid one,” I say with wonder in my voice. “You honestly think he cares about you, don’t you? You’re just a tool to him Lucinda, at best a plaything he’ll use and then toss away when he’s done. Unless he kills you first. Maybe you should look into the death of his wife years ago.”
“Shut up!” she snaps, though I can see I’ve gotten to her.
“No, Lucinda, we need to get out of here. Now! The jig is up and now he definitely has no use for you. We’re in his apartment, right? Surely you know—”
“Shut up!” she screams.
“Lucinda!” I seethe, wanting to strangle her right now. But I need to keep a cool head, if only to make it out of here alive. I’m sure they’ve been listening in on us and any moment now—
The door swings open. By the time I’ve turned my head around to see who it is, the large man that has entered is two steps away from me. There’s a cloth in his hand, and I know what’s coming. This is getting ridiculous.
“No, don’t—”
Once again, the world turns black.
Chapter Fifty-Three Enrique
I stare up at the high-rise, windows lit up against the dark New York sky. He’s moved in the past twenty years. A view like the one Richard Coleman has from this penthouse apartment is certainly one I would have remembered.
I don’t know if Leira is up there with him, or housed in a separate location. It wouldn’t be impossible for him to have her smuggled in, even in the busiest part of the busiest city in the world. After all, penthouse apartments are definitely afforded their own separate entrances. No need for those VIP residents to have to mingle with the commoners who are only in the top 2% of net worth individuals.
I rehash the plan in my mind one more time before walking right through the front entrance.
There are a doorman and a concierge. In my uniform of a plain t-shirt, jeans, and tennis shoes, it’s probably difficult for them to gauge whether or not I “belong.” But professionalism is its own form of discretion, and I’m greeted with a polite, but definitely inquiring smile.
“I am here to see Richard Coleman,” I say to the concierge. “The name is Enrique Marín.”
The requested name earns me the briefest hint of skepticism. “Is Mr. Coleman expecting you?”
A sardonic smile touches my lips. “He most certainly is.”
“Very well, I’ll call up.”
My self-assured smile remains in place, giving him all the more reason to do just that.
“Mr. Coleman, I’m sorry to bother you, but there is an Enrique Marín here to see you?”
I watch him, wondering if this will really work. I’ve come to Richard on his home turf, giving him not only the advantage but, based on what floor his apartment is on, also the high ground.
Of course, it could just be bold enough to blow up in my face when he gets a little too suspicious.
“Yes, sir, he is standing right here in front of me,” the concierge replies with a slight wrinkle of confusion in his brow. His eyes scan me up and down as he listens to something on the other end. “He’s youngish, probably mid-twenties. Dark hair, dark eyes, casually dressed, and—”
He listens some more, and my confidence begins to wane.
“Yes sir,” the man says, hanging up. He takes a moment to give me a wary look, quickly replaced by an engaging smile before he speaks. “Please follow me.”
I quietly let go of the breath I was holding and give him an easy grin, as though
