My phone is long out of charge, but I keep it beside me anyway. I pick up another one of the magazines to pass the time and flip through some pages before setting it aside. I get up and pace the room, anxious to leave now, to get to the next phase of this, but it’s barely nine o’clock.
I have decided one thing. I need to talk to Santiago. It wasn’t ever really an option to just disappear out of his life—even if he somehow didn’t catch up with me. I can’t leave Evangeline or the rest of my family behind. I can’t take a chance that he’ll hurt them. I just need a few more days to think before I make contact.
To pass the time, I start to fold up the newspapers and stack them. I wipe off the coffee table, then enter the study to pick up the whiskey glass sitting on the desk and carry it into the kitchen to wash. I set it on the drying rack, then empty the moldy food containers from the fridge. The trash can hadn’t been emptied since before I came, so I pull the bag out of the bin and carry it into the study. There, I take out the empty bottle of whiskey and set it aside, then pick up the bin and turn it over into the bag but only manage to get half the contents in. The other half spills out onto the carpet.
“Crap.” I tie the bag off and set it down, then get on the floor to pick up the things that fell out, pieces of crumpled paper, a paper cup of what was once coffee. I reach my arm under the desk to grab whatever it is that rolled there. When my fingers close around it, I pull my arm out, and I’m surprised to find lipstick.
I look at it. It’s a smooth matte-black tube, simple, like any hundreds of this particular brand that I recognize. And I can’t help but pull the lid off and twist it so I can see the lipstick itself.
Leaving everything, I get up and go into the living room where I have a little more light to study it. To double-check.
It’s just a red lipstick. But I turn it over and read the name of this particular shade. Russian Red.
It’s the shade I wore at the gala.
I find my hands are trembling as I feel for the phone in my pocket, but when I take it out, I remember it’s out of charge. And I remember Abel’s warning to stay inside the house.
But I make my way to the door anyway and punch in the code. Pulling it open, I grab my car keys from the table beside the door before going outside. I fumble with the lock, my hands are shaking, but I get the door open and slip into the driver’s seat. I put the lipstick down and start the car, my door still open as I let it run and feel for the charger cable that’s disappeared somewhere under the passenger seat. It’s still plugged into the power outlet, so I find it and tug it out, then plug the phone in and wait. And while I wait, I look at that lipstick again. It’s used but hardly. And my mind is running with an idea, but it makes no sense. None.
A few minutes later, the phone switches on, and I dial Abel’s number. It rings and rings, then goes to voicemail, so I disconnect and try again. I catch my reflection in the rearview mirror. The light is on since the door is still open. I should probably close it, but Abel answers then.
“I told you not to call me again.”
“Whose lipstick is in the house?”
“What?”
“The lipstick. Whose is it?”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” he asks but only after a pause I might have missed if I wasn’t paying attention.
“Abel, the lipstick. It’s the same brand and shade I wore to the gala. The same shade the woman who pretended to be me wore when she tried to kill my husband.” God. To say the words is still unreal. Someone tried to murder Santiago. And what I’m holding in my hand…no. No. It can’t be.
“Ivy. Where are you?”
“Was it you?” I ask, my voice small.
“Where. Are. You?”
“Tell me, Abel. Tell me you didn’t do this to him. To me. Please.”
There’s silence then, just before I hear the sound of a car. A glance in the rearview mirror tells me it’s two cars, actually. One parking along the street, one directly at the end of the driveway. My brain is slow to process what’s happening until I see the men climb out, two from each vehicle. One flips his cigarette onto the lawn.
These are the friends Abel sent. They’re not Santiago’s men. He wouldn’t send these particular men. I know it.
They're early.
I drop the phone, the lipstick slipping from my hand when I try to grab the door handle, almost managing to pull it closed as I put the car in reverse and slam my foot on the gas, instinct taking over now. Adrenaline as one of the men jumps out of the way while another yanks my door open, and I ram my car into the one parked at the end of the drive, my forehead slamming into the steering wheel with the impact.
One of them yanks me out roughly. I open my mouth to scream, but someone slaps his hand over it, and I just see one of them slip into the driver’s seat of my car as I’m lifted off the ground, my kicking, my struggles meaning nothing. I’m carried into one of the waiting vehicles, the stench of cigarette smoke overpowering as my hands are dragged behind my back and bound just as I manage to bite the hand still closed over
