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PROLOGUE
Soledad
One Year Ago
The old analog digital clock on the TV stand reads 3:34 a.m. I shift and look over, he’s sleeping on his back, his head hanging over the pillow underneath his neck. The subtle rise and fall of his chest are in sync with his snores, which are a loud rumble reverberating in the otherwise silent room. I can hear the dull buzzing of the exterior lights outside our bedroom window.
I push the blanket and sheets back then glance to see if he’s moved. He remains in the same position. I rise from the bed and tiptoe toward the living room where I left my sneakers, phone charging, and purse. After slipping my shoes on and tying them, I stand in place. I can still hear the grumble of his snores. I grab my coat, phone, charger, and pockabook, and ease the front door open, pulling it closed behind me while holding the doorknob turned, to silently close the latch.
Last night when I returned home from work, I left the driver’s side door unlocked so I wouldn’t have to use the key fob to open it, allowing me to silently enter my car. Once inside, I push the key into the ignition, put the car in drive and take off toward my best friend’s house, leaving behind everything I’ve ever owned except my phone and what’s inside my purse.
CHAPTER ONE
Soledad
Today is the last day we have to soak up the sun before flying home to Boston tomorrow. We’ve been in Miami for three days for a much-needed girls’ trip. Melida, Jestine, Krissa, and I have been friends for most of our lives and we’re celebrating Jestine’s twenty-ninth birthday, which is next week. Besides, after the awful winter we had, I was feening to feel the sun warm my skin and the sand between my toes.
“Will you pass the sunscreen?” I ask Mel.
Melida is beautiful with fair skin and silky dark brown hair resting right below her shoulders. Her brown eyes have flecks of golden yellow, making them shine bright. She’s obsessed with wearing lipstick and I think her obsession rubbed off on me because I am also obsessed with it. Even now as she’s lounging by the pool, her lips are lathered in a deep orange hue, accentuating their fullness, and matching her one-piece bathing suit and large brimmed hat.
“Heads up,” Melida shouts as she’s tossing me the sunscreen. Jestine is napping in the chaise next to mine and Krissa is in the pool cooling off, sipping on a fruity cocktail, and chatting with some guy.
We’re staying at the historic Betsy Hotel at the quiet end of Ocean Drive—if you can even call it that. Maybe less rowdy is a better way to describe it. This way, we can relax at the hotel yet still be at the center of all the action in Miami Beach. The rooftop pool is what enticed us to stay here—that and because Krissa is friends with the hotel manager who hooked us up with a great price for the suite we’re staying in. Krissa is the manager at one of the waterfront hotels in Boston and they met at some work event she attended.
The Betsy is a boutique hotel located inside a restored 1940s Georgian revival building, a classical building marked by an understated elegance with its symmetrical lines, terrazzo floors, lots of natural light, and an incredible lobby bar touting some of the best drinks in South Beach. After Krissa befriended the Betsy’s hotel manager, we started planning a trip to Miami. None of us had ever been here and it’s the perfect getaway to escape the brutal weather.
“Thanks,” I tell her. “What time should we leave tonight?”
“I made us dinner reservations for eight thirty, that way we can get to the club around eleven thirty. The restaurant is several blocks away so we can leave at eight,” Melida responds.
“Where we having dinner?” mumbles Jestine as she stirs awake.
“Prime 112,” I respond.
“Sol, did you get us a cab?” Krissa asks. Krissa and I became friends in the fourth grade after she and I got into a fight during recess at one of those old school metal merry-go-rounds. Our teacher punished us by making us have lunch together in the school’s office every day for a week. It’s a story we often share and laugh about because had it not been for her wanting to beat me up on the playground, we probably never would’ve been friends.
Standing at five feet eight, Krissa is tall, although she always complains about feeling short next to me. Her light brown hair is shoulder length and freckles spread across her cheeks and nose. Her most striking feature is her light brown eyes, bordering on green, with naturally long eyelashes we all envy.
“Yeah, I just did. ETA is twelve minutes. Once I finish putting lipstick on, we can go.”
“Hurry up,” says Melida. “If we’re more than fifteen minutes late for our reservation, we’ll lose our table.”
“Let’s go, I’m done,” I say.
As we approach the restaurant, I notice it’s not typical South Beach architecture. This structure looks like it belongs on a beach in New England rather than amongst the Art Deco styled buildings of Ocean Drive.
Prime 112 is a steakhouse the hotel concierge recommended for dinner. He told us it was one of the best in Miami—a place where people go to be seen and hope for a celebrity sighting. As we wait in the crowded bar area to be taken to our table, I can’t help but notice the patrons are all dressed to the nines in what seems to be typical Miami style—chic, short skirts, plunging necklines, and vibrant colors. Women wear beautiful halter dresses, both long and short, and men have dress shirts on, with open collars and shiny necklaces. Everyone has just the right shade of sun-kissed skin.
We follow the hostess toward our table, and I can’t keep my eyes off of her because she’s stunning and wicked tall, and that’s saying something because I’m six feet tall. Her legs are long and lean and although she’s wearing flat sandals, she’s still several inches taller than me. A rarity and something I love seeing.
As we traverse the main entryway, I glance at the wall to our left, which is lined with framed newspaper clippings of the restaurant’s features. The posh white banquette to the right is full of people gathered around small square tables. The lights are low, almost too low, making it dark and difficult to navigate around the tables. The rustic brick pillars throughout the dining room are a nice accent and contrast to the dark wood floors. She seats us at a table along the back wall next to the open kitchen, where there are several waitstaff congregating as they wait for food to be placed onto the line. It’s a full house and loud in here, and we can barely hear the music streaming through the speakers.
Once seated, the service begins almost immediately, with a young man filling our water glasses and a waiter introducing himself and taking our drink order. After the server pours our wine, I raise my glass. “Cheers girls. I’m so glad we made this trip and am bummed it’s already over. Four days flew by. I’m dreading going back to the freezing temperatures and gloomy days.”
“Cheers,” Melida, Jestine, and Krissa say in unison and raise their glasses, the four of us meeting in the middle. I avert my gaze from Melida when she glances my way.
We’re interrupted by our waiter who places a napkin wrapped wine glass on our table with crispy bacon strips inside as well as a basket of bread rolls and butter.
