I’m gone before he can stop me, almost knocking someone over in my rush before I finally find a bathroom where I stand at the sink and take a few deep breaths.
I dressed in black lace from head to toe. Santiago chose it. I didn’t care what I wore. I was just grateful the veil was heavy enough that I could hide at least a little.
Eva sat beside me in our pew. My mother occupied the front pew across from ours dressed in a deep blue too-tight dress that accentuated her every curve. Her hat set at an angle, the veil purposely chosen to enhance, not to hide. Because she wasn’t grieving.
I don’t even really blame her. She was forced into this marriage. She was a gift to my father, whom she always considered beneath her.
When my fingers brushed Santiago’s during the service, I was quick to pull away. If he noticed, he didn’t comment. I looked at his hand then, and I looked at the casket again, and all I could think was what did he do to my father for it to be closed?
Eva went home with Marco and two soldiers after the service. I didn’t want to go. I wanted to stay, to hear the stories my father’s friends, many of them strangers to me, told about him. I had no idea he was so ingrained in IVI. Had no idea he had so many friends there and true friends at that. I see it in their eyes and hear it in the affectionate way they speak about him. I’m truly glad for that.
And now as I stand looking at my blotchy, tear-streaked face in the bathroom mirror, I think about that closed casket set with an enormous bouquet of lilies spilling over the lid, and for all of my father’s faults, I loved him. I will miss him.
The toilet flushes, and a woman I don’t know comes out of the little room to wash her hands.
“He was a good man, dear,” she says to me.
“Thank you,” I tell her but then am grateful when she’s gone. I feel so sad. So incredibly sad. And the fact that I am alone has never been more obvious to me.
It’s then I feel something. Something strange. I blink, looking down at my stomach. And there it is again. The lightest tapping. Like the tip of the tiniest finger just touching the back of my hand. It’s so faint I almost miss it, but then it comes again. I put my hand over my round belly, and I smile, feel my eyes fill up at this first real contact with my baby, and all I can think is I need to tell Santiago. I need to put his hand on the bump and let him feel this almost fluttering sensation as delicate as a butterfly’s wing.
But then it’s gone, and my smile with it because I won’t tell Santiago. Not now. I can't. He will miss this milestone, and it makes me want to cry all over again.
The door opens again then, and someone walks inside. I busy myself washing my hands. I should have slipped into one of the stalls.
The woman hesitates at the door, and I realize she’s one of the waitresses. I wonder if she doesn’t think she should be using this bathroom for guests.
“They’re open,” I say, pointing at the stalls.
“Um…are you Mrs. De La Rosa?”
I turn to look at her. I realize she’s young, maybe sixteen. I nod.
“Here.” She digs into her pocket and pulls out a wrinkled, unsealed envelope.
“What is it?” I ask, taking it, opening the flap to see a cell phone inside along with a sheet of paper.
She bites her lip, then looks at the door. “Someone just asked me to give it to you,” she says and slips out before I can ask her another question.
I take out the phone, note the crack across the screen. I push the home button and gasp when I see a picture of Michael and Hazel laughing, Michael with a huge cone of cotton candy in his hand, his tongue blue as he licks it off his chin.
I unfold the scrap of paper. Just a torn sheet of paper. But I recognize the handwriting.
Do you see now what he’s capable of? I can’t get hold of you. He’s got you locked up tight. Ivy, if he finds me, he will kill me, too, and you will never even hear about it.
But I guess you don’t care about that, do you? You’re on his side now. Even after he murdered our father.
Just remember, I did this because you made me do it.
I’m waiting in the parking lot of the Marriott two blocks away with Hazel and her illegitimate brat. Get here in five minutes and I’ll let them go. Come alone. No Santiago. No soldiers. Or else Michael will learn how a real gun works.
Want proof I have them? I'm sure he’s made me out to be a liar. Hazel’s passcode is 3636. We took some family selfies.
Abel.
Hazel and Michael? I haven’t talked to them since… well, it’s been maybe four or five days, I realize. I tried to call a few times since Santiago told me about Dad but haven’t gotten through, and I’ve been so depressed I didn’t stop to think about it. I realize now Michael hasn’t called me in several days either.
Santiago is protecting them. He told me he’s protecting them.
My hands trembling, I punch in the code Abel gave me on the phone that I know is Hazel’s and when I click on the camera icon, there they are. The family selfies.
I have to take hold of the counter to keep from dropping to my knees. Terror fills me as I scroll through photo after photo of Hazel and Michael sitting in the backseat of a car. Hazel’s eyes are red and she’s clutching Michael to her. His face is buried in her chest. It’s the last one that’s the worst. Abel’s face looms in the foreground of this one and I almost don’t recognize him for the grin on his face. He’s in the front seat of the car and my sister and Michael are in the back and in the corner of the selfie I see the gun.
Before I can think a text pings on the phone. Two words.
Five minutes.
I set the phone and the note on the counter and move. I don’t have time for anything else. Five minutes to get to the Marriott. I can’t risk telling Santiago. Can’t risk harm coming to my sister or nephew. Santiago will find the note. Someone will.
I walk out of the bathroom and hear the noise of the crowded reception room. I swear I hear Santiago’s voice but I don’t see him and I hurry to the exit.
Abel is desperate. Was he desperate when he tried to abort our baby? No, this is different. He is out of friends. Out of choices.
And I know he means me harm. Even if he is blood. But I have no choice but to go. His threat is real.
A waiter almost barrels into me when he comes hurrying out of the swinging door of the kitchen. He begins to apologize, but I shake my head and tell him it’s fine.
Before Santiago or any of his men see me, I slip into the kitchen, pausing only to spot the open door leading out into the street beyond. I hurry through the bustling space, thinking about this ceremony of serving a meal after a funeral. Wondering how people can eat on such an occasion.
And when I’m outside, I see two of Santiago’s men standing at one end of the street as the one lights a cigarette for the other. I hurry to the other end, and a moment later, I am on a bigger, busier street. I rush down one block, two, and when I turn another corner I see a queue of taxis at the hotel. I’m about to cross the street to hurry to the lot when a car screeches to a stop beside me and I have to jump out of the way.
I see them then. The terrified faces of Michael and Hazel in the backseat. Abel leans across the front seat and pushes the passenger side door open. I don’t miss the pistol in his hand.
“Get in,” he barks and I do and we’re off before I’ve even closed the door.