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“How much did you get paid?”
At that, he stops his sobbing and looks up at me, real worry making him look older.
I raise my eyebrows. “I hate repeating myself.”
“Ten thousand dollars.”
I whistle. “Let me ask you something. Do you need that money? Because if I look around, you seem to be doing all right. Your house is nice enough. Is it the wife? Does she like expensive things?”
He just sobs like a pathetic coward.
“You don’t have kids. A sick sibling maybe? Older parents? Nothing I found when I looked into who you were. So why did you need that money?”
“I just… I’m sorry, Mr. Augustine. I’m sorry.”
“Tell me why you needed that money.”
“I… I…”
“You want me to tell you? Would that be easier? All right. It’s the same fucking thing everyone in this aptly named godforsaken town is obsessed with. You’re no different. That was my fault. I should have gone out of Avarice.”
“Please, I—”
I cut him off and continue, “Greed, Dr. Fairweather. Greed. That’s why you took the money, and you did something that will irrevocably change a young woman’s life.” I gesture to Val, who stands him up one more time. “A young woman I happen to care about. And so, now, you pay. And I’m going to extract every single cent of that ten grand and then some, you mother fucking bastard.”
28
MADELENA
It’s late when Santos finally gets home. I go to him as he and Val walk in. Val gives me a nod and disappears. Santos’s forehead is creased with worry, his eyes dark. But when I see the splatters of red on his shirt, I stop.
“Santos?”
He closes the space between us. I take his hands, ignore the brown paper bag he’s holding and look at his swollen, red knuckles, the blood on his cuffs.
“What happened? Where were you?”
“Come, Madelena.” He shifts a hand to my lower back in an effort to guide me toward the stairs.
“Why are you bloody?”
“Upstairs. Let’s go.”
I study his eyes, the green dark like a forest in shadows. I let him lead me upstairs. Once we’re in the bedroom and the door is closed, he takes my hands and looks at me with something I don’t see often in him. Something like remorse.
“What is it? Whose blood is that?”
“Fairweather.”
“Dr. Fairweather? Why?”
He takes a deep breath in, sighs his exhale, and takes what’s inside the bag out.
I stare at it. Close my eyes. Open them. Because that can’t be what I think it is. I look up at him. “Santos?”
“Take it,” he says.
“No.” I move backward a step.
