Page 85 of No Greater Oblivion

“But not impossible,” I say. “So how do we do that?”

Rian attempts to rub the exhaustion from his eyes. “Proof. A paper trail. Evidence damning enough to make his investors realize they’re in hot water with him.”

“Morales!” Dahlia interjects quickly. “He told me he found proof—oh, well, rather that there would be.”

“Fine.”

“He’ll want something in exchange, though.”

“And I don’t think getting the FBI involved is a good idea,” I say.

“Morales just wants to take Li down. Doesn’t matter how or when,” Dahlia replies. “I promise, we can trust him.”

“Get him on the phone. I want all of this settled before the end of the day.” Rian stands. “Call me if something happens.”

“Wait!” Dahlia hops off the stool and makes to follow him. “Where are you going?”

“Home,” he answers curtly.

“I can go with⁠—”

“No. I’d rather be alone.”

Rian leaves and the front door slams shut behind him.

Dahlia

The rest of the morning and early afternoon pass by in a blur.

Alejandro leaves not long after breakfast but comes back a little while later to take Doña Ana out for an early lunch. I feel strangely possessive when I watch them leave together, as if he intends on taking her and never bringing her back. Which is ridiculous but the fear never subsides.

To distract myself, I start cleaning.

I scrub all the bathrooms, wipe down the windows, change the sheets in all the bedrooms, run several loads of laundry, and mop until my back gives out. I’ll never forget the first time Alejandro visited my old apartment after Karina’s wedding. He was afraid of breathing too deeply, lest he somehow infect any of my pristinely clean surfaces.

One thing I had to learn very early on in my life was emotion regulation. During moments of instability between my parents, I didn’t have an outlet for what I was feeling or the emotional intelligence to articulate how their behavior was affecting me. Then again, what child does? As a result, I became what I like to call a situational neat freak. High stress situations has always been the main trigger for my cleaning sprees and by the time I finish riding out the high of this particular manic episode, people will be able to drink out of the toilets they’ll be so damn clean.

Lyss and I don’t speak much and she spends the day working in her bedroom. By midafternoon, she comes downstairs and notices I’m steaming all the pillows in the first-floor den. A few minutes later, I hear a grinding metal noise coming from somewhere in the house so I head upstairs to the formal dining room. Having climbed nearly six feet on an old ladder she trudged up from the cellar, she uses a feather duster to clean the chandelier.

I’m not sure why I feel the urge to cry in this moment. All I know is I want to tell her how grateful I am for her but can’t muster up the courage to do so.

Two hours later, we find ourselves in the kitchen again. I just finished beating out the dust in every rug in this house in the backyard while Lyss rearranged our pantries. I hang up my coat by the door and plummet onto one of the island stools. Without prompting, Lyss uncorks a bottle of wine and serves us both a glass. We drink in silence and the smell of cleaning solutions and fragrant plugins fills my lungs.

“Lyss…” I whisper.

She lets out a deep breath. “Yeah, Dee?”

“I think I made a really, really big mistake.”

She refills both our glasses but this time we don’t finish them. Lyss doesn’t speak over me and instead allows me to fill the silence when I’m ready.

“Sometimes, I wonder if…leaving the way I did was the wrong decision. I was overwhelmed and afraid so I ran.” My cheeks heat and the wine goes straight to my head. “I thought he’d come after me.”

“Why?”

“Because if he loved me, he would’ve.”

“Are you talking about Alex? Or your father?”