Then I sneak downstairs, through the French doors, and out into the moonlit garden.
Fresh air fills my lungs. It makes me feel better—just barely.
A voice in the darkness calls my name. “Señorita Esme?”
I turn to find Miguel, one of our home’s security guards, standing a few feet away from me.
His features are hidden by shadow but I can sense from his tone that he’s concerned for me. Then again, he’s always concerned about me. He’s sweet like that.
“Is everything okay?” he asks.
He steps into the light and grins. Miguel is a rough-featured man, all blunt nose and bushy eyebrows, but there’s a tenderness to him that I always appreciate. It stands in stark contrast to my father’s cruelty.
I give him a kiss on the cheek. “Hi, Miguel. How’s your wife?”
A smile transforms his face. It strikes me that, despite the black suit and the massive rifle slung across his chest, he’s not much older than I am. Like a big brother looking out for his kid sister.
He knows he’s not supposed to be casually chatting with me—that’s strictly against my father’s orders—so he glances around to make sure no one else is in sight before stepping closer and pulling out his cell phone.
“She gave birth last week,” Miguel tells me excitedly. “Look, look—I have a daughter now!”
My heart thrills for him. The warm glow in his eyes, the happiness radiating off of him—this is how a father is supposed to talk about his baby girl. Not like an item to be sold to the highest bidder.
“Here!” he says as he pulls up the picture on the phone and hands it over to me with reverence. “Her name is Selena. We named her after my abuela.”
I look down at the round-faced baby girl, wrapped up tight in a yellow blanket with pink flowers embroidered around the edges.
My chest squeezes tight. “She’s beautiful, Miguel.”
He nods and winks. “She looks like her mother, thankfully.”
“I’m so happy for you. For both of you,” I say, handing the picture back to him.
“What are you doing up so late?” Miguel asks hesitantly.
I gnaw my lip anxiously. “I was planning on going for a run.”
His dark eyes turn nervous. “I can accompany you around the grounds if you’d like,” he offers.
I put a hand on his forearm. “Please, Miguel,” I beg. “I need to get off the compound, just for an hour or two. I want to run by the ocean.”
“I’m not authorized to let you go unaccompanied…”
“I know that. You don’t need to come with me. I’ll be fast. Safe. No one will see me.”
He’s tugging nervously at his mustache. “Señorita, you know I can’t allow that. I’m under strict instructions from your father. You are not supposed to leave the compound without his permission.”
“Papa will never know, Miguel,” I plead. “Please? Just this once?”
I feel bad about putting him in this position, but I’m desperate to feel the salt air on my face.
Just for a little while… let me pretend I’m free.
“No one will know,” I promise him again.
He sighs, looks down between his feet, then back up to me. I see his eyes softening and I know I’ve won.
“Only an hour?” he asks solemnly.
“Not a minute more,” I tell him. “I swear.”
He nods once, gruffly. I could hug him I’m so happy, but the clock is already ticking. Instead, I give him my most grateful smile and take off in a hurry towards the back of the compound, to a little side door in the garden wall that leads me out to the ocean.
I can smell the salt air as I reach the sand and break into a run. It feels good to move, to sweat, to taste the ocean breeze. It tastes like freedom.
I didn’t know it then, but it was the last freedom I’d have for a long, long time.
2
Esme
I promised Miguel I’d only be gone for an hour. True to my word, I make it back with two minutes to spare.
It’s near midnight and the night is quiet. Once I’m back within the walls however, I notice that the house is still lit up. Artificial light filters in from the first floor onto the lawn, turning the grass purple.
I circle around the house in search of Miguel. I arrive at his post but he’s nowhere to be found.
My heart starts thudding in my chest. Silently, I head into the house and towards to my room as fast as I can. Towards safety.
I’m passing the third-floor drawing room when I hear Papa call my name.
“Esme.”
I freeze. Dread settles over me like a blanket of thorns. I think about ignoring him, but years of experience tells me that’ll only make things worse.
The door to the drawing room is ajar. I push it open a little further and walk in.
The room’s balcony doors are open to the ocean breeze. Papa sits outside, his back to me, his face angled up towards the moon. How had he even heard me passing by?
“Yes, Papa?”
“Esme, my darling,” he repeats. “Come and sit with me for a moment.”
I gnaw my lip. I don’t really have a choice, though. I just have to hope for the best.
I walk out onto the large balcony and sit down in the chair next to his. There’s a disturbing tension in the air.
Something is most definitely not right.
“What is it, Papa?”
He offers me his hand. I have no choice but to take it. He squeezes my fingers for a moment. It’s an old gesture, one that he hasn’t done in many years, not since I was a little girl.
“Did you have a nice run?” he asks casually.
I hesitate for a second before admitting the truth “I, uh… yes, I did.”
Papa nods. “Cesar liked late night runs as well.”
My face pales. He hasn’t spoken Cesar’s name in so long. It sounds so wrong coming from his lips.
Ever since the funeral, Papa has refused to speak my brother’s name. It’s like he
