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“It’s not what you think,” he says.
“When you said you might leave things out, is this what you meant?” When I try to pull free, he tugs me to himself. “Let me go. Don’t touch me.”
“We need to get you inside. It’s too cold.”
I shake my head, but it doesn’t matter what I want. It’s never mattered what I wanted. Not when it comes to Santos Augustine.
Within moments, I’m half-walking, half being carried toward a staff entrance. Warmth immediately envelops me as the sound of dishes clattering and orders being called out overwhelms me. Santos keeps me close, my face buried against his side as we make our way to an elevator reserved for staff. As soon as the doors close and we’re alone, he pulls me back to look at me.
“Christ,” he mutters.
“What else have you lied about?”
“It’s not what you think. Give me a minute.”
The elevator doors slide open and we’re on our floor. There’s no guard at the door. He’s probably on break since no one’s up here.
Santos marches us to our apartment—can I call it ours?—and once we’re inside, he releases me. I take two hurried steps away as he drags both hands through his hair.
“You killed him,” I say.
He shakes his head and crosses the room toward me. I back up but I’m nowhere near as fast as him. He takes my arms, shakes me. “Where is it? Where is the photo?”
“You can’t hide from this, Santos.”
He releases me, mutters a string of curses, then digs his phone out of his pocket and types out a furious text.
I look around the room, not sure what I’m looking for but when I see a letter opener on the desk in the corner, I go for it.
“Why did you do it? Why kill my uncle? He was innocent. He never hurt anyone!”
“You didn’t know him like you thought.”
“I knew him!”
Santos looks at me, then at the letter opener in my hand. It’s sharp. Maybe not as sharp as a kitchen knife, but it’ll do some damage.
“Give me that, Madelena,” he says, eating the space between us, clearly not worried about me with my letter opener.
“Tell me why!”
“Give it to me. Now,” he says, words quieter as he’s closer, but no less threatening.
I slip behind the couch because I need to put distance between us. He’s bigger than me, faster than me, and he knows how to fight.
“What did I tell you just hours ago? What did I tell you about trust?”
I snort. “You wanted me to blindly trust you and you know what?” Tears blur my vision. “I am so fucking stupid, so desperate, that I wanted to.”
“You’re not stupid,” he says, seeming caught on that word. “Give me a minute to explain.”
“Desperate then. An easy target. Get back. Get away from me!” I tell him and turn the point of the knife to my own throat because he won’t care about getting hurt himself, but he will care if I hurt myself.
No. Care isn’t the right word. His plan will be disrupted if I hurt myself. He doesn’t care about me. I was a fool and an idiot to ever believe he might.
“Maddy.” He holds his hands up, palms to me. “Put it down.”
“I’m not Maddy to you. I already told you never to call me that!”
