AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Why was he there? Was Camilla telling the truth about the call she overheard? Did someone arrange to meet him? About what? It had to have been something clandestine for it to take place then and there.
Madelena interrupted their meeting, but did her presence help the wrong man?
If I assume Thiago survived and lured me to that motel room to leave me those clues, why would he do that? He thought he still owed me. I know Thiago well enough to know that he always pays his debts, good or bad. Was this him repaying that debt? Making things even-Steven like he used to say?
Assuming that, did he know that Caius was the Commander’s son all along?
That he and I were linked through this shared half-brother? Why tell me? What purpose does it serve? And the beads. They’re the same as the one I found on the catwalk. He might have ripped them off the wrist of the man who pushed him.
I shake my head because this is pointing me once again to Caius. Why would Caius be up there? What business would he have with Thiago?
Unless Caius did know his parentage. Unless my mother is lying. But then I remember her tears, the way she looked at me. Her fear. Her shame. He might have found out himself somehow and never told her, though. Never told anyone.
“No.” I say it out loud into the wind. Not Caius. I’ve suspected him and been proven wrong, and that dream was just a dream—my mind fucking with me. That’s all.
There was one thing, though, that is confusing. All the things I saw fit. My mother’s sewn lips. The secret she was made to keep. Bea and the Commander and their eternal prayers after their horrendous acts. Caius as a boy, holding our mother’s hand. Caius a man. Thiago. Madelena. The eternal length of beads connecting them. It all fits. It all belongs together.
Only one thing does not. One thing had no place in my dream.
The police report.
I stop.
A light goes on, as if on cue.
I’ve walked so far, I’m almost to the town center. It’s the bakery light. Gustavo starts his days in the middle of the night.
In that moment, I remember something, like the light going on in the bakery triggered a light in my brain.
Alexia was left-handed. She said many of her cousins were too. A strange fact, but maybe these things run in families.
Blood ices over in my veins.
Almost everything in their kitchen was backwards, made for left-handed people. Innocuous things like the can opener, a measuring glass, scissors. I remember my frustration at trying to perform the simplest tasks and Alexia coming to my aid.
Because she and her father were both left-handed.
And, according to the police report, whoever murdered Alexia was not.
21
MADELENA
Iwake up because I’m cold. I turn over on the bed, a double that is just slightly bigger than the one I slept in at college. I want to cuddle against Santos for warmth but realize why it’s so cold. He’s gone.
Wrapping the blanket around myself, I sit up and glance outside at the orange sky, the deep blue ocean. The hardwood floor is cold on my bare feet when I stand and walk over to the window and look out at the beautiful day dawning before me, water as far as the eye can see, but different than the cliffs of Avarice. A wild beach. Foamy peaks of waves breaking on soft sand. Green grasses high on the dunes blowing in the wind and miles and miles of nothing, of no one. Far off, the lights in the heart of the small town are coming on one by one. I stand there for a minute and watch the sun rise before I get too cold. There’s a fireplace in this room, but we didn’t light it. I wonder if the fireplaces are the only source of heat for the small cottage.
I dress quickly, grateful for the thick wool socks Santos told me to bring, and head downstairs.
“Santos?” I call out, but there’s no answer and no lights are on. Using my new phone, I scroll to his name which is only one of two—the second being Odin—and hit the call button. But nothing happens because there’s no cell service. I set the phone on the coffee table.
It’s cold down here too, and I go to the fireplace, where I poke the embers of last night’s fire. Beside it, the basket in which logs are kept is empty but for a few smaller twigs for kindling. I stand to look around trying to remember if I saw firewood stacked outside.
Just then there’s a knock on the door.
“Santos?” I call out, thinking he locked himself out, but the door is unlocked and when I pull it open, Father Michael is standing there carrying a stack of logs in his arms.
“Good morning, Madelena. I hope I didn’t wake you but wanted to bring these over first thing.”
