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"You should ice it. That'll help reduce the swelling and ease the pain."
"I need to sleep. If I don't close my eyes for a few hours, I don't think I can bear this."
It's past three in the morning when, after a quick shower and Gretel borrowing clean clothes from the host, the two lie down on Abigail's bed and shut their eyes. Far from their initial intentions.
They don't take long to fall asleep, but it's not a deep, pleasant slumber. Instead, it's tinged with the unease that an extremely dangerous person remains confined in the house's storage room.
Abigail is the first to wake up. A sharp pang of pain courses through her face. Her heart races as the image of the bound man in her house flashes in her mind. Glancing at the bedside clock, she's surprised to find it's almost eight in the morning. When she laid down, she was certain she'd sleep for just a couple of hours and then wake up.
Turning on the bedside lamp, Abigail looks at Gretel, who still sleeps but bears a tense expression, unable to enjoy her rest fully. Abigail takes a few seconds to ponder how different things would be without the trunk problem. She and Gretel would be in the same bed, without clothes, sporting the blissful expression of those who've enjoyed a night of passionate intimacy. She lets out a sigh of regret and gently wakes Gretel by rocking her arm.
"What's going on?"
Startled, Gretel jerks up, startling Abigail in return.
"Nothing, sorry for waking you," Abigail apologizes, studying her.
Gretel's hair is a lion's mane, and she wears a sleepy scowl. Abigail smiles, realizing she wouldn't mind waking up to this image every morning.
"What time is it?" Gretel asks, trying to focus.
"Almost eight. We should get up and start figuring out how to handle this."
"Right, yes," Gretel hesitates. "How are you feeling?"
Gretel looks at her; Abigail's eye sockets are darker, a deep shade of almost black. The sides of her nose are bruised, but to her surprise, there's no further swelling.
"It only hurts if I touch it now."
"I'm sorry I did that to you," Gretel says.
At that moment, their eyes lock, suppressing the desire growing inside them, confirming that last night's connection wasn't just a result of alcohol clouding their judgment. The attraction is real, present, and growing with every passing second they spend together.
Without saying more, they sigh and each gets out of bed. Gretel checks her phone to find thirteen missed calls from Pol, all from this morning, along with a pleading message asking if she's okay. Gretel clicks her tongue and locks the phone again, deciding that leaving him on "seen" is enough to let him know she's alive. She doesn't feel like talking to him.
They dress without fear of exposing their nudity to each other. A trust and complicity have developed rapidly between them, making them comfortable being together, as if they've known each other for decades, when it's only been a few hours.
In the kitchen, Gretel prepares breakfast while Abigail opens her laptop and searches for Teodoro Blanco's name. The overwhelming number of results on the infamous drug trafficker leaves her stunned. She heads straight to the images, not needing to browse much to find the man they have captive in the storage room. In several photos, he poses with his father, mother, and two sisters, presenting a picture-perfect family. Abigail clicks on a link and reads an article detailing Teodoro, operating under the guise of one of the many companies he had created to launder money before the truth emerged. The article mentions how he financed a rehabilitation center for addicts.
"Damn hypocrite," Abigail snorts.
"Who? Did you find him?" Gretel asks, pouring two cups of coffee with milk.
"Yeah, here he is. Mikel Blanco," she points at the screen, the man's name appearing after hovering the cursor over his head.
"Shit," Gretel mutters, disheartened.
Abigail shuts the laptop, turns on the television to the 24-hour news channel to check for updates. The news blocks repeat every half hour unless there's breaking news. The headlines focus on Russia's invasion of Ukraine, pandemic statistics, and a patricide committed by a fifteen-year-old in Elche. Both shudder at the latter, thinking the next segment will be the weather report. However, they freeze as a shocking image unfolds on the screen. Neither Mikel nor his father dominates the headlines. Instead, it's a man found stabbed in a vacant lot early this morning, along with his two brutally attacked companions, categorized as a settling of scores. The second man is in critical condition, while the third is expected to recover. The deceased is Alejandro Piquela, alias Piqui, a bounty hunter who has made a living locating and handing over criminals to the police. The two turn pale at the image displayed, certain he's one of the men at that table from whom they stole the car keys.
The news has piqued interest for various reasons. Firstly, both the police and the government have denied paying individuals like him for such jobs, and now everyone wants to know if it's one of those things that exist but will never be admitted. Secondly, after interrogating the less severely injured survivor, he claimed they had kidnapped Mikel Blanco, the son of one of Spain's most dangerous drug traffickers operating on the Costa del Sol, Teodoro Blanco. According to unofficial sources, they stumbled upon Mikel by chance and acted on impulse. Knowing he had little value to the police, they made the worst possible decision and decided to ransom him to his father, who would undoubtedly be willing to pay a much more substantial amount.
"Oh my god" Abigail exclaims, eyes wide.
The headline concludes as the journalist on the screen explains that the police are skeptical of this version because the man hasn't been able to reveal Mikel Blanco's location. According to him, they had him bound and semi-drugged in the trunk of his car, and someone stole it.
"We need to get rid of that car right now," Gretel impatiently stands up. "Even if we changed the license plate, the police will soon figure out the model, and the owner of the other car won't take long to realize that the one driving it isn't him. When he reports it, they'll connect the dots and have an easier time."
Abigail listens but doesn't respond. She reopens the laptop and searches for the model of the BMW parked in her garage.
