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“No,” I tell him truthfully. “I mean, my birthday is December thirteenth and I am twenty-one, but I have never been to Columbia. I was born in Ashley, Pennsylvania. My father’s name is Martin and my mother’s name is Helen.” I hesitate. “Is that why you brought me here? Because you thought I was this other girl?”
He grinds his molars together, his irritation showing. And while he’s just as attractive as I had initially thought at the bar, the air of danger that surrounded him has increased a million times over. I’m no longer blinded by his good looks, now I’m downright scared.
“Your name is Marianna Herrera.” He growls from somewhere deep in his throat.
“My name is Mila Grace.” My chin quivers slightly as I speak.
He studies me for a long moment, as if something has dawned on him. Leaning back in the chair, a sudden smile crosses his lips. Only it’s not the friendly, flirty smile he gave me at the bar. No, this isn’t anything close to that kind of smile.
“You really don’t know who you are, do you?” His features soften slightly. “I hadn’t considered this. I’d assumed with the way you scan every room you enter. The way you constantly look behind you as if you’re afraid you’re being followed. The way you lock your doors and double check them immediately after.”
I know I do this, I always have. My mother taught me to always assess every situation I enter. To never let my guard down. I assumed she was teaching me how to protect myself from being mugged or potentially raped. But he seems to think it’s more than that and for the life of me, I can’t process why.
“How do you know I do that? Have you been watching me?” The thought has every tiny hair on my body standing at attention.
“For a while, yes. I’m nothing if not prepared. Though I must say, given who you are, I’m surprised how easy it was.”
“Who I am?”
“A Herrera.”
“No, I’m not. My name is Mila Grace.” I don’t understand why he is trying to make me believe I’m someone I’m not.
“No.” He shakes his head, tipping the glass to his lips as he finishes the remainder of his drink. Leaning forward, he sets the glass on the ground and relaxes back in the chair, crossing one leg over the other. “Your name is Marianna Herrera. When you were two years old, your house was set on fire with the intention of killing both you and your mother. Yet, somehow, you survived.”
“Wait... Why would anyone want to kill us?”
“Your father is Esteban Herrera. As in head of the Herrera Cartel.”
“Wait, what? Cartel? What are you talking about?” My mind swirls. I’ve heard of cartels, of course. But I know nothing about them other than what I’ve read in books or seen on television, none of which were good things. “My father is dead. He died in a fire...”
“When you were two?” he guesses.
“Yes.”
“I hate to be the one to break it to you, little bird, but your father is alive.”
“He can’t be.” I feel like he’s playing some sort of sick game with me. “My mother wouldn’t lie to me like that.”
“Your mother is dead.”
Tears fill my eyes and all the air leaves my body as if someone just laid a swift punch to my stomach. “What did you do to her?”
“Your mother has been dead for nineteen years.”
My emotions calm, but the confusion deepens.
“The woman you call Mom is not your biological mother. She’s your aunt.” I’m too stunned, too confused to form any type of argument. He’s wrong. I know he’s wrong, but I can’t seem to find the words to tell him so. “After the fire killed your real mother, Grace, your father let everyone believe that you had died with her. But in reality you are very much alive.” He gestures toward me. “He knew you’d be at risk if anyone ever found out, so he sent you to the States to live with your mother’s sister. He moved you to this remote, small town where no one would ever think to look for you, gave you both new identities, new lives, and even went so far as to bury an empty coffin next to his wife so no one would question it.”
“You’re lying,” I croak, tears stinging the back of my throat.
“Am I?” He seems amused which only serves to fuel the anger bubbling just below the surface. “Let’s see how well this lines up, shall we?” He pauses, ticking up one finger. “You say your name is Mila Grace. Your mother’s name was Grace. Makes sense that he would want your new identity to have something of your mother’s in it.” He puts up another finger. “I’m guessing you’ve never seen pictures of your father, have you? Or what about pictures of you and your supposed mom from when you were a baby? Any of those lying around?”
“They were all destroyed...”
“In the fire,” he finishes my thought. “Convenient, don’t you think?” He flips up a third finger. “Did you never find it odd that you live in such a big house in one of the nicest neighborhoods in the area, yet your mom works part time in the office at the local elementary school? I mean, it’s not like she makes more than a couple hundred dollars a week. How do you think she affords to give you the life she does?”
“She got insurance money from the fire.”
