I sat at the kitchen table and checked my email. Lesroy sent a picture of Scarlett lying in the middle of his bed, a leather slipper in her mouth. He added the caption: Police locate shoe of missing man. Hopes for finding the body are slim.
His message made me long for home. What if we all just said screw it, packed up, and left? Nothing we discovered or accomplished could bring Stella back. And I had to believe everyone gets what they deserve, that fate or karma or whatever would take care of her killer or killers. But what if I was wrong? What if the people who strangled my sister and treated her body like yesterday’s garbage got away with it? I couldn’t allow that to happen.
Although they had been gone only a short while, I was restless. I rummaged through the magazine rack until I found an English version of Star and curled up on the sofa to catch up on the lives of the rich and famous. I thumbed through the first few pages, tossed it aside, and drifted into a sound sleep.
My dreams weren’t about Stella. She just kept turning up in them. In one, Lesroy and I were in my living room, and she came in with a baby on her hip. I knew, in the inexplicable way you know things in dreams, the infant she carried was mine. In another, Scarlett and I were running in a field. The dog stopped and stared into the woods where my sister stood, then vanished into the thicket. The last started on a high note. Justin and I were lying entwined on my mother’s bed, kissing and touching. He rolled me over until I was on top of him, and I saw Stella’s reflection in the mirror over the dresser.
I startled awake, conflicted as usual about her but also in deep sorrow. Seeing her with my baby—a child I would never have, according to Mom, unless I got with the program—made me think of all the firsts Stella and I would never share. But the one with Justin brought back the bitterness I held far too long.
Dreams, like memories, deceive us. They show a reality we wish was real; then they destroy hope with truth.
I wandered around the room. It was after two, and I was beyond bored. I picked up the TV remote and began flipping through channels, stopping at a telenovela, like American soap operas only more melodramatic. It was in Spanish, but I decided to expand my limited vocabulary. Even without subtitles, I could tell the plot followed a beautiful young woman torn between two men. The story mesmerized me. Close-ups of passionate, open-mouth kisses and fade-to-black sex scenes were hot stuff for daytime television.
I couldn’t understand any of the dialogue and didn’t realize it was over until the credits ran on a split screen. Frustrated at the realization I’d never know which of the steamy heroes the heroine chose, I reached for the off button as the station cut to the local news desk. A ridiculously handsome man in a tan suit and red-striped tie stared into the camera with the words Noticias de última hora flashing below him.
The picture shifted from a shot of the newsroom to footage of police with grave expressions, standing next to a scattering of small boulders at the edge of the ocean. One of them began speaking. I moved until I stood inches from the TV, expecting proximity to improve comprehension. But the only words I caught were tablista and Estados Unidos: surfer and United States.
When the camera panned in on the base of the rocks, my stomach flipped. I strained to pick up what the reporter was saying, but it was useless. He spoke too fast. The cameras cut back to the anchorman. His solemn expression morphed into a cheerful smile as he transitioned to a commercial break.
I couldn’t have seen what I thought I had. I clicked through channels, hoping to find more on the story, but there was nothing. Nothing at all to confirm that quick shot of a bright orange and purple tennis shoe.
Chapter 31
I turned off the TV, took a bottle of water from the refrigerator and held it against my head, praying the coolness would provide clarity.
Calm down, Grace. You can’t be sure it belonged to Prez. The color on the set isn’t great and even if it is the same, Prez Allen can’t be the only surfer from the United States who wears orange and purple tennis shoes.
I told myself I was still in shock from my ordeal at the Point and not able to tell the difference between reality and imagination. The trick was to stay calm and not jump to ridiculous conclusions. A soft tapping sound interrupted my reverie.
Remembering my promise to be extra careful, I looked through the peephole where a stack of fluffy white towels blocked my vision.
I released the bolt lock and opened the door. The laundry tumbled to the ground. Instead of a smiling staff member, a bald man built like a linebacker stood there.
I stepped back, grabbed the knob, and tried to shut him out. But he was surprisingly agile for his size. He stuck a booted foot on the doorstep and sidestepped through the entrance, clicking the lock behind him. I continued backing away from him, then bolted for the patio. Once again, he moved faster than expected and took my arm without applying pressure.
“Por favor, Señorita.” He released me but stepped in front of me, blocking my flight path. “My name is Marco, and I am not here to hurt you. I have a message from Señor Balsuto. He wishes to see you, but only if you agree to it.” A look of genuine concern came over his round face, as he carefully removed a folded piece of paper from his back pocket and handed it to me.
Grace,
If you still want to know who
