The next month passes peacefully between Santiago and I. There’s no sign of Abel. It’s like he’s vanished off the face of the earth. Any bank accounts in his name have been frozen, according to Santiago, who has somehow gained access to them. There’s been no credit card activity on any known cards for weeks. Between Santiago’s men and the soldiers, The Society has stationed throughout New Orleans and anywhere else Abel has ever had ties, I can’t fathom where he’d be hiding.
Did he have more than one safe house? He had to have. He needs a place to lie low. He needs money.
Unless, of course, someone is hiding him.
Santiago hasn’t said as much but I know it’s on his mind. A man I’ve yet to be introduced to has come to see Santiago multiple times and with Santiago’s tendency to become more animated and raise his voice when it comes to my brother, I’ve overheard a few things. It’s not that I’m eavesdropping exactly. It’s just if I didn’t happen by his office door during these visits, he’d never tell me anything.
He’s been to see my father almost daily and when I ask my father what they talk about, what has him and Santiago so worried, he changes the subject, maneuvers me around on tiptoe. At least I’m allowed to see him, though. Although I’m still not sure Santiago’s feelings for my father will ever change. If he’ll ever not blame him for what happened the night his father and brother were killed along with so many others. The night he walked away a scarred, broken man.
I know Santiago doesn’t want me to worry. I know he’s keeping things from me in order to protect me, protect our baby. At least I believe that’s his thinking process. I don’t like it, but I can’t seem to budge him on that. In some ways it’s endearing me to him. I like seeing how careful he is with me. Different than he is with anyone else. He’s gentle and thoughtful and I realize I feel safe. Safe in this house. This home we’re making. Safe in his arms and in his bed.
I haven’t told him my feelings for him yet. Haven’t said the words I love you. But they’re creeping up more and more often when we make love. When he holds me afterward. And it’s getting harder to swallow them down.
He’s let Eva and I video call Hazel and her son, Michael. Michael looks like a mini version of my sister, and seeing her, even over a video, was so much more emotional than I ever thought it could be. I missed my sister these years but I didn’t realize how fresh that hurt was.
We keep the conversations pretty light with Michael and Eva around but it’s okay. At least we’ve reconnected. At least I know she’s safe. And the best part of it is that Michael already calls me Aunt Ivy and has begun to randomly call me when he gets home from school to tell me about his day. He most often forgets he’s on the call after just a few minutes and puts the iPad he’s using down to go off to play or eat a snack. It’s the sweetest thing.
Eva’s been back to school, too, at her own request which shows me how bored she was getting. Although Santiago has stationed two guards to remain at her side. She tells me they at least stay in the hallway when she’s in a classroom. I love watching them interact especially. My little sister taking on Santiago De La Rosa, poking holes in his armor, even having him outright laughing when she’s not testing every boundary.
He’s a different man from the one I met just months ago.
I would feel better having my father moved into the house, but he still refuses me that.
Today, though, I am going to see Colette. It’s late afternoon by the time Marco returns to take me but I don’t complain. I know he’s one of Santiago’s most trusted men and when it can’t be Santiago himself to accompany me to the few places I am permitted to go, it’s always Marco and only Marco.
“How is he?” I ask Marco as I settle into the Rolls Royce. It feels strange sitting in the back seat when it’s just the two of us but when I tried to slip into the front seat once, I realized quickly how uncomfortable it made him.
“Working too hard and sleeping too little,” Marco says, knowing I mean Santiago. He cares about him. I wonder if Santiago realizes it. If he even sees how many people he has around him who truly care about him. It makes me sad to think he finds himself unlovable.
“And my father?”
“Same as your husband.”
I want to ask more, but I don’t. He won’t tell me anything else.
We’re silent on the drive to Colette and Jackson’s Garden District house. It’s a sunny day, the temperature warmer than it’s been in a while. I have always loved spring in New Orleans. I’m wearing a simple cotton dress and a light sweater, and you can see my rounding belly clearly now. It’s a small bump, but it’s definitely there, and I put my hand over it, waiting for the day I feel the first little flutters of movement. According to the books Santiago bought me, it’ll be a few weeks before that happens, though.
When we get to Colette and Jackson’s house, Marco grumbles something under his breath as he turns onto the circular drive to park behind the other Rolls Royce that’s already there, the driver standing outside smoking a cigarette. The man looks into the windshield at us but doesn’t smile or greet us. Instead, he takes the last drag of his cigarette and flips the butt onto the manicured lawn.
“Prick,” Marco says.
“Who is he?” I ask, but before he gets a chance to answer, the front door opens, and Cornelius Holton walks briskly out of the house, his face red, his step angry and hurried.
I want to shrink away and hide. I will never forget that man. Never forget how he looked at me, how his fingers felt when he opened my robe as I’d tried to cover myself that horrible morning before the wedding.
God. I feel sick. But instead of allowing myself to cower, I take a deep breath in to steel myself. I narrow my gaze and look at him straight on.
He’s so wrapped up in his own thoughts that it almost appears to surprise him when he sees our car, and he stops momentarily. Through the windshield, his eyes alight on me. Not Marco but me.
And I don’t look away.
“Wait in the car,” Marco tells me as he opens the door and steps out, then closes it behind him. He doesn’t approach Holton, but his hulking presence does drag the older man’s gaze away from me and I swear for a moment, there’s a flash of insecurity there. A twinge of fear or even panic. And I know Marco is making sure Holton sees him. Making sure he knows he’s been seen.
Holton clears his throat. I don’t hear it, but his hand moves to cover his mouth as he does. He nods once to Marco before he slips into the back seat of his own vehicle, and they’re gone.
“What was that?” I ask Marco as I climb out of the car.
“Like I said, a prick.” Marco closes the door and reaches for the bag I’m carrying.
“I can carry it,” I say. It’s a gift for the baby.
He nods, and we walk up to the house together, where even through the door, I can hear Jackson and Colette arguing, her voice higher than usual, her upset audible from here. His is lower but obviously agitated.
“What should we do?” I ask Marco, who is making no secret of listening.
He puts a finger to his lips.
“You can’t listen!” I ring the bell when there doesn’t seem to be any break in the conversation inside. As soon as I do, the house falls silent. Marco and I look at each other momentarily before I hear hurried steps and a baby’s cry. The door opens, and I see Colette. Jackson is a few steps behind her. The men exchange a look, but I don’t bother with them. I’m worried about my friend. It’s obvious Colette has been crying. Her skin is blotchy, and her eyes red and puffy.
“Ivy,” she says, trying to pull a smile together. I’m not sure if I should make an excuse or ask if it’s a good time which would reveal that we heard them arguing and possibly make things more awkward but I’m grateful when the baby’s crying grows louder. “Come in, come in. Ben must be hungry.”
She takes me by the arm, and we hurry through the living room and to the stairs. I barely have time to smile a hello to Jackson whose eyes are hard when I meet them. Unreadable. But there’s no mistaking the ice inside them.
Before we’re even at the top of the stairs, I see the woman I’d met last time come hurrying out of what I guess is the nursery, the screaming little bundle in her arms. Colette rushes to her to take the baby who must sense his mother—or the food source—nearby and his cry changes to a gasping catching of breath as he smashes his head repeatedly against Colette’s breast, his frustration growing again when he can’t get to her breast fast enough.
As I follow Colette, I hear the deep rumble of Marco’s voice but can’t make out what he says before Colette and I are in Ben’s nursery and she’s closed the door behind us.
She relaxes a little as soon as we’re alone and plops down onto the big rocker to feed Ben.
“I can come back. If it’s a bad time,” I say, looking at her worried face.
“No, it’s okay, Ivy. It’s good you’re here. I’m glad.”
I set the bag down and sit on the chair opposite Colette. I take in the room, the walls painted a soft blue, the same mobile hanging over the cradle that Santiago had had delivered to our house.
“We have the same one,” I say to fill the silence. The room overlooks the garden and it’s so peaceful and quiet, so different from the mood downstairs.
“The mobile?” Colette asks.
“Santiago bought it. It’s one of the first things.”
She smiles. “Stand up, let me see you while I get this guy fed. Then you can meet him.”
I do and turn a little so she can see the bump.
“You look beautiful, Ivy. Truly glowing.”
I sit back down. “Thank you. I feel good. Not much nausea and, well, things with Santiago are better so that makes a really big difference.”
“I bet,” she says, her face faltering again. Ben gives a cry and reaches a small hand up to cup her chin. She smiles down at him, using the muslin to wipe milk from the corner of his mouth.
“He’s beautiful, Colette.”
She’s teary-eyed when she looks up at me. “I love him so much already and honestly, I thought I already loved him before he was born but it’s nothing like when you first see his little face. When you first hold him.” She wipes her eyes with the same muslin.
“What’s going on?” I ask, worried.
She glances out the window and shakes her head and I get the feeling she’s replaying a conversation in her head.
Ben falls asleep and she runs a finger over his cheek to rouse him. He starts to suck again as soon as she does.
“I don’t like that man,” she says to me finally as a few more tears fall. “And Jackson,” she falters here, shakes her head and looks at me but I get the feeling she’s miles away.
“I heard you fighting. I’m sorry. We’d just walked up to the door and I could hear.”
“I’m sure the whole street heard. Everyone but Jackson, that is.”
“What do you mean?”
She sighs deeply. “Can I tell you something?”
“Anything.”
“This is big, Ivy. Like really big. But I think Jackson is making a mistake and there’s no one I can talk to.” Her voice breaks and she’s openly crying now.
“Colette,” I get up, take some tissues from a box nearby and hand them to her, then crouch down to take her hand. “Whatever it is, you can trust me.”
She nods, squeezes my hand.
The door opens quietly then and the same woman who’d served us last time brings in a pitcher of iced tea and a plate of small cakes. She smiles warmly but doesn’t speak and just glances at the baby. I know she’s trying to keep quiet for Ben.
Colette thanks her and a moment later she’s gone.
“I love those cakes. I can’t get enough. I’m going to be big as a house if she doesn’t stop baking them.” She’s attempting humor and I smile but it’s not quite working.
I get up, put one of the cakes on a plate and bring it and a glass of iced tea to her. She takes the cake and I set the tea on the nearby table then make myself a plate too. I don’t eat it, though. I’m too worried about her to eat.
“I saw Holton leave,” I say.
“He’s a bastard.” She falls silent, distant again and sets the barely nibbled on cake aside.
“Colette?”
She just shakes her head like she can’t speak just yet.
“He was there when my…when I had the virginity test.” I manage the words, feeling my face flush.
Colette’s mouth tightens into a thin line. “Santiago made you—”
I shake my head. “He didn’t know. It was my brother. My half brother.”
“Abel.”
“You know him?”
“Not personally,” she says, but from her tone I know she doesn’t like what she does know and I wonder if Holton’s visit is somehow tied to Abel.
“Santiago wouldn’t have made me do that,” I say with the knowledge that it’s true. Even then he wouldn’t have submitted me to that humiliation. “But Holton stood as witness and I still shudder when I think of his eyes on me. His hand when he—”
“God, Ivy.” Her hand is covering her mouth, her eyes wide.
I shake my head. “What did he do to you? Why do you hate him?”
“You can’t tell anyone. If The Society finds out…” she trails off.
“I won’t. I promise. Tell me what it is.”
“Jackson’s uncle, one he never even really knew, it turns out he was involved in some pretty bad things. He and Jackson’s father never were on good enough terms for Jackson to even know much about him. It just makes no sense.”
I wait as she gazes down at Ben, rocking him a little as he sleeps again, his tiny mouth barely hanging on to her nipple.
“I think he’s scared,” she says, and looks up at me. “Jackson I mean. I think he’s scared they won’t believe him. That he’ll be guilty by association.”
“Guilty of what?”
Again, she’s quiet for a very long time and when she turns back to me, she looks like she’s going to be sick. “You know about the gas leak a few years ago?”
I feel the blood drain from my face and Colette’s eyes fill up with tears.
“The one that killed Santiago’s father and brother. The one that burnt him so badly,” she continues but she doesn’t have to. I know.
“I know The Tribunal has been investigating. Even though they said it was a leak. An accident. They’ve been investigating for years. And Jackson, as an advisor to The Councilors he’s been privy to all those meetings.” She breaks off altogether unable to speak for a moment. “It needs to come from Jackson, you know?” she asks, her voice strange.
“What does?”
I see how her hand is trembling when she brushes a finger gently down Ben’s cheek again. “Holton is blackmailing him.”
“Blackmailing?”
“Threatening him.”
“For what? With what?”
“Jackson’s uncle was one of the men who funded it.”
“Funded it?”
“It wasn’t a leak, Ivy. It was planned. It was murder.” She breaks down entirely on that last word. “I told him he needs to go to them. They’ll listen to him. They know him. But if Holton goes through with his threat,” she stops, shakes her head. “I don’t know what they’ll do, who they’ll believe. Jackson had nothing to do with it. He only found out about his uncle’s involvement when Holton came to him with evidence.” She looks at me, sniffles back her tears. “Evidence he claims your brother gave him.”