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“By marrying a man who tortured your family.” He laughs darkly.
“You know the only person who ever stood up to him only did it once. And do you know why?”
He snorts. “Nobody ever stood up to Santos. That was the problem. Nobody but—” He shuts up before looking at me.
“You wanted to know how I was so sure about you? The truth is, I wasn’t. I’m still not. What I do know is that you called him out for handing my sister over to his men, even though it was you who collected her. You didn’t agree with them raping her,” I whisper, but I know he hears me because he flinches. “Everyone has a line in the sand they won’t cross.”
I am overcome with sadness as I think of the once vivacious Selene staring back at me with hollow eyes, her body littered with bruises and cum leaking out of her.
He reaches up and cups my jaw. “She knew the rules. She was playing with fire the first time she stepped out on Santos. She knew the risks, knew you’d all pay for her actions, and she did it anyway. So no, I don’t condone Santo’s actions, but I can’t find much sympathy for the girl who tried to trick the devil and failed and offered up her family as sacrifices.”
His words are like a slap in the face. I swallow down the vomit, knowing deep down he’s right. It’s why my sorrow is always twisted up inside me with anger and hate. There is so much animosity inside me, I wonder how I manage to keep it all contained.
“That’s irrelevant. I’m talking about you pissing off Santos, and three days later you get arrested for a double homicide that you didn’t commit.”
“Yeah, and how do you know that?” He pins me against the car again, his eyes burning into mine.
“Because you were with Santos the night of the murders.”
“So?”
“He slipped you something to make it seem like you had too much to drink, more than you actually had. Think about it. Your whole night was blurry, right? You said you couldn’t remember anything. You woke up covered in blood, next to the victims, with the murder weapon in your hand, and not a mark on you to claim self-defense.”
“Santos said he was called to a meeting, and I went home. That when I left, he had no clue where I went.” His anger beats at my skin, but I push on as the rain begins to taper off.
“He did go out, but the only meeting he had was with the people he killed. Then he had his men stage the scene with you as the murderer.”
Time stands still around us as my words hit him like bullets.
“When he came back, he was covered in blood and smiling. The next morning, you were arrested.”
He stares at me for a moment longer before whirling around and punching one of the trees lining the driveway. He hits it again and again as he roars with fury. I stand up and remain silent as he expels some of his anger.
When he’s spent, he leans against the trunk with his head bowed and blood running from his hand.
“You stood up to him, Calix, but you lost twenty years of your life. What chance did a teenage girl have?”
He turns to look at me, an expression on his face I’m not familiar with, as he grates out, “What did you just say?”
CHAPTERELEVEN
The already volatile tension between us coils tighter as I frown.
“Your brother set you up for murder.”
He shakes his head and steps closer. “I had my suspicions. I knew something wasn’t right. Santos had all this power, and yet he couldn’t help me? I knew. I just refused to accept it. But that is not what I’m talking about.”
His fingers under my jaw tip my head back to look at him. He’s trying to mask his fury, but it’s a battle I don’t see him winning, not tonight. “How old are you, Sugar?”
I’d normally make a flippant comment about how it’s rude to ask a woman her age, but it’s slowly sinking in that Calix has been missing a huge chunk of information. If he doesn’t know this when I thought it was common knowledge, at least within our circle, I have to wonder what else he is oblivious to.
Calix is forty now and has spent half of that locked away for something he didn’t do. Worse, he was put there by a man he used to idolize, and here I stand, smashing everything he thought he knew about his brother to pieces.
“I’m thirty-five,” I tell him. I see his eyes flutter as he quickly does the math—once, twice, and even a third time because he doesn’t like the answer he keeps getting.
He steps away from me and stumbles back, horror on his face at the implications. “You…”
I step toward him, but he moves back out of reach. Surprisingly, I find my feelings hurt by the actions, though I’m not sure why. “I was fourteen the day you came to our house with your brother and took us. Fourteen the day you locked me in that room. Fourteen the day you were arrested and gone, as if I only dreamed you up.”
