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Sam closed the yearbook and thought for a moment, the only sound the old clock chiming above the kitchenette in the pool house. Señora Sanchez was the only person who made sense.
She’d had access to Jackson Williams fifteen years ago, and to Allie now. She’d also sent him and Allie on a goose chase with that hint about Mr. Williams’s involvement with a married woman, possibly to throw the scent off her. He was going to report his suspicions to Detective Johnson, but first he had to find Allie and tell her. He needed to be sure she really was safe.
He glanced at the clock again. Oh, hell. It was a lot later than he’d realized.
He reached into his back pocket for his phone, but it wasn’t there. After five long minutes of searching, he finally found it on the piano bench in the main house. He must have left it there earlier.
There were two missed calls and a voicemail.
Allie. He listened to the message, and all the pieces clicked. She was right. There had been a book. He didn’t have an inventory list, but he didn’t doubt that it wasn’t listed.
He called her. It went to voicemail. Damn it.
The way he’d shut her out, he wouldn’t be surprised if she was screening his calls. He left a message, hoping if she heard what he had to say, she’d answer, or call him back. He waited another minute and then dialed her again.
Still no answer.
He felt a sudden tightness in his gut, a familiar signal that always told him something wasn’t quite right.
He called Detective Johnson—who did take his call, thank God—and quickly relayed what he and Allie had figured out. As expected, the Detective wasn’t falling all over himself to arrest the Spanish teacher—it was really just conjecture—but he was definitely attentive and said he’d pay her a visit right away.
Sam got off the phone, still uneasy. He tried Allie again, and when she didn’t answer, out of perverse desperation, looked up her sister’s phone number. But Allie wasn’t with Laney, and after assuring her there was nothing to be worried about, he hung up.
Where the hell was she?
She had better not be staying late at the damn school again. Surely, she’d learned her lesson after the last time. As a precaution, he called back Detective Johnson who, at hearing the panic in Sam’s voice, agreed to send a car to the school and one to her house, just in case.
There was no way Sam was going to sit here and wait around for the all clear. He had to do something. To see with his own eyes that she was safe.
And to apologize to her for being a complete asshole.
…
Allie’s head flopped back. Her eyes stared straight ahead, which only afforded her a view of the ceiling. But Javier’s arm, tucked under her head, was so close she could smell the garlic and sweat that clung to him. Her throat convulsed lethargically, but she didn’t gag. The only silver lining to her present state. Choking on her own vomit was something she’d just as soon skip.
Then Javier was slowly lowering her downward. The familiar cold, hard porcelain of the tub met her back, cradling her limp body. She could see the bastard’s face, but he was careful to keep his eyes averted. Coward.
“Go make sure the doors are locked,” his mother ordered. “We can’t risk being interrupted.”
He let her drop and strode off, no doubt relieved to escape the small, suffocating room that was filled with the smell of her fear and horror.
An unmistakable vibrating under her right hip sent a surge of hope through her. Her phone. She’d set it on vibrate for the school day and never switched the ringer back on.
Was it Sam calling her back?
Oh please, let him figure it out and come to her rescue.
Señora Sanchez didn’t appear to notice the muffled sound, and it had stopped by the time she came to kneel next to the tub. Looking Allie over, she then bent down and started to remove Allie’s shoes.
“Have you heard about the tragic decimation of the rainforests?” Señora Sanchez asked, as if they were sitting in the faculty lounge talking over coffee. “They say that with the loss of the rainforests, countless medical miracles—potential cures for many diseases, even cancer—will be lost.”
Allie couldn’t help but wonder if, besides the paralysis, she was becoming delusional. Was the woman really talking about trees right now?
“In the little village where I grew up in Ecuador, there were a few women with knowledge about the healing powers of the roots, trees, and fauna found deep in the Yasuni rainforest. There is also a vine that causes paralysis. It was first used by the Indians, the hunters, to immobilize their prey. The tricky thing is getting the poison into the bloodstream. Just ingesting it won’t do anything.”
Allie’s brown leather clogs clunked to the floor, and Señora Sanchez’s slim, vein-covered fingers stretched out and began working on the buttons of Allie’s shirt. Finger
s that were icy cold where they touched her bare skin. Whatever was happening to her, Allie could still feel sensations.
