Page 43 of Sin of Love
“You brought them in, didn’t you?” I ask softly. “Two of them are Americans. One Canadian. Two Mexican, two Peruvian. All displaced. Lost. Like a good little puppet, you seduced them with a fast money for honest work line. You’re a pimp, Maggie. You’re no better than—”
She grabs my arm, jerking me close, and hisses, “You have to do this. Teach them to flirt and fuck, Deirdre, because if you don’t, we’re both dead.”
I laugh as I wrench my arm from her grip.
“What makes you think I give a shit? What makes you think I don’t want to die?”
Uncertainty flickers in her eyes. I need to stop talking—have to—but it’s too late. I’m off the leash, the fury and horror I stuffed all morning expelling all at once.
“‘Just business,’ my ass. And don’t play stupid with me. You’re too much of a brat to be brainwashed. Did you sign up for this life when you ran away at sixteen with your boyfriend, who then abandoned you, leaving you to suck dick for a dollar in Mexico City?”
She gasps. “How—”
“What? You think because I’m drinking enough poppy tea a day to kill a fucking elephant that I’m not me anymore? That I don’t know how to find out what I want, when I want, about who I want?”
Stepping close enough that I can smell her perfume and sweat, I whisper, “You asked me a few weeks ago if he always hurts me when he rapes me. Yes, he does. Do you know why?”
Breath trembling over my lips, she shakes her head.
“Because I’m unbreakable. The. Perfect. Doll.” I step back and turn for the house, throwing words over my shoulder like knives, “Don’t threaten me again, or you’ll find yourself working the resorts with the girls.”
“You’re a fucking psycho! You’re going to get us killed!”
She’s enraged and powerless, desperate to have some control in a life that’s not her own. Despite all she’s seen and lived through, she’s still young. So young. I was just like her once, rationalizing and justifying, self-medicating my mind with denial. But I had Nate; Maggie doesn’t have anyone.
I laugh, the sound like tiny razors in my throat. Touching my lips, I’m surprised when I don’t find blood on them.
She’s right. I’m crazy. And God willing, I’m going to get us all killed.
The walk to my room is a blur, my vision swimming, the walls pulsing. Paulo finds me leaning against a pillar halfway there. He takes my arm and guides me the rest of the way, pausing when I’m too dizzy to move.
“Do you ever wonder if we’re dead, Paulo?” I murmur in Spanish. “My mama always told me I’d return to where I was from. This is Hell, isn’t it?”
He doesn’t respond, though a corner of his mouth turns down.
“Can I make my own tea today?”
He shakes his head.
* * *
“Maybe tomorrow, then.”
When the knock comes that evening, I’m not ready. Not remotely ready to face Julep or his friends, but especially not what I know is coming after—the promise lingering from the Devil’s touch this morning.
Fingers curled on the stone railing of the balcony, I come closer than ever before to jumping over. Closing my eyes, I imagine the wind stinging my cheeks, the hissing in my ears, the blur of green as I fall. Maybe, if I dove like a swimmer, I could ensure my head hit the ground first.
“Miss.”
“Coming, Paulo,” I whisper.
A few hours later, after dinner but before dessert, Julep stands at his place at the head of the table. Vibrating with energy, with a deranged glint in his eye, he orders everyone from the dining room. They file out with surprisingly little fanfare; for the first time, I see fear in his friends’ eyes, sympathy in looks from the women.
They know he’s insane, but they don’t stop him. Chances are, they don’t even leave but stay outside the door, listening avidly as he clears a corner of the dining table. Surely they hear the heavy thunks as knives sink into wood—a tease of what’s to come—and the tearing of my dress, thick and wet sounding. My litany of “No, no, no” is shrill as I’m forced facedown over the place he recently enjoyed a rare steak.
They hear. They know. Maggie knows. Paulo knows. The silent staff, the dozen guards. Everyone knows, because this isn’t the first time.
But they won’t stop him.
What happens next happens to someone else. La muñequita. She performs as she was taught. Flawlessly. With tears and screams, with blood and pain.
He doesn’t touch her. Not really.
She’s safe in her tree-root cave. And this time, she’s not coming back out.
