I’d spent one full night searching through his things, finding hiding places I hadn’t known existed in the house. That included information he’d left for me specifically.
Bank accounts.
A will.
Deeds to property in Barcelona.
A name of an attorney to call in case of his death.
It had all been too much for my fractured mind. I’d lain in a ball for hours as the memories had surfaced.
Up to that point, they’d been few and far between, some including Navarro. Only he’d been different twenty years before, a boy, not a man. He’d seemed so regal, so honorable.
And so caring.
The basis for my dark-haired hero in my personal fairytale, a story Brooke had heardad nauseam.
While the paths we’d crossed had been brief, for a young girl they’d been more memorable than almost anything else. How strange. How sad. A beautiful summer day. A festive party. A stupid girl determined to catch and save a furry creature. When I’d tripped over some rocks, a sharp stick driven into my leg, he’d carried me back to my house in his arms. While I’d been crying, clinging to him as I wept.
There had been more, yet the shadows of why he’d been so angry haunted me.
What I did remember was that we’d both lived in glass houses made from greed and power. Even a child could feel the danger. Only I’d been more worried about monsters lurking underneath my bed and not from those considered friends and family.
Another series of fleeting images crisscrossed my mind and I almost doubled over.
Navarro was lost in the photograph I’d handed him as if experiencing terrible memories of his own, but I could read people. He was an innocent man.
Of this crime anyway.
My emotions were all over the place. During a time when most children were playing with dolls or watching their favorite cartoons, I’d overheard horrible conversations including details about my mother’s death.
Correction, her murder.
My father had tried to soften the horrible crime, acting as if she’d had an accident. The whispers in the house from soldiers and employees had told me otherwise.
But I’d heard him rage, screaming that Navarro and the Torres family had slaughtered my mama. I hadn’t understood anything until much later in life. By then, he’d stopped talking about my mother or what had occurred. He’d set aside every picture.
As if she hadn’t existed. I’d hated him for it. I’d ignored him, turning inward and leaving his home as soon as I was legally allowed. That had left Brooke to care for him and to take his bullshit. Maybe all the guilt I’d felt over the years had fueled this insanity.
The notion that time healed all wounds was wrong, very wrong. However, trauma and time had placed a thick wall between reality and nightmares, memories fading because my mind had needed an escape. Our new life had brought some peace, some sense of normalcy.
Seeing the photograph and reading the documentation my father had kept secret had brought enough back I’d formed a certainty and hatred for Navarro.
The chance I’d been wrong was increasing. My nerves were frayed. My pulse skyrocketing.
I’d wanted him to be the bastard who’d come back to finish what had been started. I’d all but foamed at the mouth thinking I’d managed to break through his security and his defenses, but I’d been wrong.
What happened to women who accused a reprehensible, merciless killer of an act he hadn’t committed? Somehow, I doubted we’d be sharing another intimate moment together. Maybe he’d toss me in a large body of water and fill it with piranhas.
The images were bloodier than any horror flick I’d seen. But much more realistic.
For several days I’d been concentrating on envisioning a dozen ways in which I could kill the man. From spiking his drink with arsenic to using piano wire and wrapping it around his neck. I’d gotten creative and would pretend to be a part of his landscaping crew and use a weed eater.
But as soon as I’d reminded myself I wasn’t into blood and gore, I’d scratched the idea off my list. I’d written several ideas onpaper. I could only imagine what the police would think if they broke into my house since I’d left it in plain sight.
At least I’d been left a trophy by the bastard who’d taken my sister. It had been done so on purpose. Using it to end Navarro’s life had seemed perfect. I’d talked with the police. They hadn’t given a damn. Just another girl lost in a city full of creeps and criminals. When I’d finally pulled myself up from the wretched haze, I’d booked a flight to Mexico City.
How many times since I’d found the photo in some of my father’s things had I looked at the picture? He’d been sent the photograph. I’d found the envelope on his desk. Block lettering. I’d memorized every detail, every line in Navarro’s face and the way he smiled. I’d called him evil and had dreams of how I’d kill him.
