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“When he’d have to hurt them. You know he did that, right?” she says with a pitying look, her lip curled like the thought of hurting anyone is unpalatable to her. “Well, sometimes he’d have to make an example, you know? So others would know if you crossed my daddy, you’d have to deal with the consequences. Between Santos and Thiago, let me tell you, not a lot of people went against my father. I mean, imagine, Thiago and Santos together beating the crap out of your kid while you watched. Doing terrible things to your wife or daughter.” She turns away. “No father wants to see that.”
“Get out, Camilla.”
“Those cuts on his body, that’s how he kept a tally.”
I’m about to repeat that she get the hell out, but that makes me stop.
“They’re the innocents. That’s what he called them. He’d cry over them some nights. I’d hold him but he didn’t want comfort. Caius, now he took all the comfort Daddy sent, all those rewards. But not Santos. I guess if you can be good in this world, he’s it. I mean, if you can overlook all the damage he did. I get it, too, you know? What happened to Alexia, poor thing. Murdered so brutally. It broke him. Made a murderer out of him.”
I push my hand into my hair and take a deep breath. Someone knocks quietly on the door then opens it, and we both turn to find Liam standing there. He looks at me, then his sister.
“We’re leaving,” he says to his sister. “Finally.”
“Just a sec. Close the door behind you, Liam,” she tells him, very clearly dismissing him. When her brother obediently leaves, she looks at me. “Just be careful with him. Everyone who cares about Santos Augustine disappears or dies. Alexia. His father. Thiago. Like I said, you seem sweet. Watch your back.”
With that warning, Camilla gets to her feet, smiles down at me, then reaches to the desk to take the book she’d asked to borrow.
“Mind? I’ll return it. Promise.”
“Take it. Just go.”
“Aw, thanks!” She looks down at her prize and I rub my forehead, a headache forming. Without another word, she’s gone.
14
SANTOS
The text I receive is an address four hours out of town. When I enter it into Google Maps, it comes up with a motel that looks about as inviting as the Bates Motel. As much as I hate leaving Madelena at the memorial service, I have no choice. Val will be with her, though, and I’ve instructed him to bring her home as soon as she’s ready.
My mind is racing. Did Thiago survive the fall? The cliffs? The water was high. It’s possible—if you’re very lucky. But he’d have to be a hell of a swimmer, and I can’t remember that he was… and he was never lucky.
Could it be that he didn’t have his phone with him when he was up at the lighthouse? Does someone else have it, and are they sending me on a wild goose chase? Or have they accessed his account and are sending the messages from another source? It’s a possibility. It could be a trap. But I can’t ignore the message.
I pull up to the parking lot of the motel in just under the four hours my GPS predicted. It looks to have fifty rooms spread over two floors. About a third of them are occupied, based on the number of cars.
I double check the message and park the SUV at the far end of the lot. Room nineteen is what I was sent and that’s on the second floor.
First, I text Val to ask about Madelena. They’re still at the house, apparently, which surprises me, but he’s got eyes on her.
Taking the revolver from the glove compartment, I double check that it’s loaded and tuck it into the back of my pants. I hadn’t brought a weapon to the memorial service, so I don’t have my shoulder holster.
After a glance around, I climb out of the SUV and walk to the stairs.
AbeigeSUVis parked a few spaces down and beyond that is a run-down white Toyota with duct tape holding the rear bumper in place. Cigarette butts are crushed into the asphalt. Onthe highway in front,carsflypast. Behind the motel, the forest of trees is dense. At the bottom of the stairs, I step over a broken whiskey bottle. I pass six doors to nineteen.
From the large windows, I see that each of those rooms is empty, the beds made. The curtains of room nineteen are drawn shut. I take hold of my revolver and keep it at my side. When I reach the door, I realize it’s not closed all the way. Readying the gun, I push the door open, letting the fading afternoon light fall across the unmade bed inside.
I don’t need the light, though. The bathroom door is open, and the blinking fluorescent light is bright enough to illuminate the hotel room. I step inside, peer into the bathroom. It’s empty. I return to the bedroom. Whoever was here is gone, and they didn’t leave anything behind. I sit on the edge of the bed, the mattress too soft with overuse, and set my pistol on the nightstand. I reread the text.
This is the address.
I try calling the number, which I have tried multiple times. It goes directly to voicemail, as it has every single time. I type out a text.
Me: Who is this?
Because I’m thinking more and more that this is not Thiago but someone with access to his phone’s messaging app. Why would Thiago send me on a wild goose chase? It’s not like him.
The first checkbox appears. Message sent. Second one appears. Delivered. And that’s where it ends.
