Kiss Kill Vanish (24 page)

“You were the one who was positive he wasn't!”

“But that doesn't mean I would take the unnecessary risk. If you're wrong, and if Marcel finds anything out . . .”

I'm uncomfortably close to tears. I know what he wants me to say, but I wait for him to finish his own sentence.

“. . . he'd tell Victor.”

“But he
doesn't
work for my father,” I repeat.

“If Victor finds out what we're planning, he'll have me killed. You know that.”

“
Stop!
” I feel sick. He's right. What have I been doing? Why would I jeopardize Emilio's safety like this? I open my eyes and stare at a strip of paint peeling off the door. If he knew everything I'd told Marcel, he'd . . . I don't know. Yell at me. Hang up. Leave Miami. Disappear without me.

Maybe all those things.

“I know it's hard for you to hear,” he says. “I know he's your father and you don't want to believe it, but that's exactly what he'd do. He'd kill me.”

That interrupted dream comes flooding back to me. How could I even imagine Emilio betraying me when I'm the one putting him in danger?

“Valentina.” His voice is gentle now, pulling at me like fingers.

“What?”

“I thought I'd lost you.”

“You can't lose me.”

“I thought someone had taken you.”

“Nobody even knows I'm here.”

“Your father knows you're there. Probably a handful of his employees too.”

“But Papi wouldn't hurt me.”

“Valentina,” he says again, but this time it's too cloying, like he's talking to an idiot, or worse, a child. “Your father has enemies. You have to be careful—”

“
Stop
. I'm fine.”

We listen to each other breathe, and I imagine he forgives me for telling Marcel everything. I don't have to actually tell him that I've done it. I'm sorry. He loves me. I love him. That should be good enough.

“So you're hanging out with Marcel,” he says.

“It's nothing. He's been going through a rough time. After Lucien . . . he just needed a friend.”

He grunts. “Last time I checked, Marcel had plenty of friends.”

“Well apparently they weren't the kind of friends to stick around after his brother killed himself.”

“And you are.”

He waits for me to explain, but I don't want to. I don't feel like justifying whatever Marcel and I are.

“I guess I didn't realize you knew each other that well,” he says.

“We didn't, but I was sort of there for everything. He needed someone.”

“You already said that. And I know Marcel. He's very good at making women feel needed.”

Ha. What would he say if he knew Marcel had said the same thing about him? “He needed a
friend
. Why are you acting like this?”

“Like what?” he asks.

“Jealous. Like I did something wrong.”

“I'm not jealous of Marcel. And it was nice of you to offer a shoulder to cry on, but you've got to stop seeing him. He may not work for your father, but he knows who Victor Cruz is.”

I lie back down in my bed, the sweat-drenched T-shirt chilling my spine. I've never lied to him before. “But he doesn't know who I am.”

“Are you sure?”

“We aren't doing this again,” I say.

“He's not the kind of guy you want to be around.”

“Why?”

“Just trust me.”

Trust me. Trust me. Trust me.
I need to trust someone. It should be Emilio. It is Emilio. “I don't want to talk about Marcel anymore.”

“Me neither,” he says.

“I miss you. I was so scared something had happened to you, or you'd changed your mind about leaving.”

“I haven't. I won't.” His voice is gentler now that the jealous glint is gone. It feels like warm sun on my skin. “I love you.”

I rest my hand on my stomach. Butterflies. Wings flap and the rest has to disappear. “I love you, too. Why didn't you call again?”

“I told you. I thought someone had your phone, maybe had you too. I couldn't risk calling and linking the two of us even more than we already are.”

The butterflies are still swarming and swooping beneath my hand, almost distracting me from the fact that he's not making sense. The holes in his story are too big, though. If he really thought something bad had happened to me, he'd have figured out a way to track me down. “So why are you risking it now?”

“I couldn't take it anymore. I had to hear your voice and make sure you were okay.”

“Oh.” I stare at the water stain, which is looking less like the Virgin Mary and more like a stingray with a twisted left fin. Calling me is too dangerous, but missing me is too painful. He must've called me in a moment of weakness.

“You sound disappointed,” he says.

“I'm not, but I want you to tell me you're coming, that it's time to leave.”

He sighs. I imagine him rubbing his temples, running a hand through his hair. “I need you to be patient,” he says.

“I am being patient. But I think I should come back.” I've said it before I think the words through, but instantly I know I'm right.

“What are you talking about? You can't come back. Not now.”

“Why not? I could tell Papi running away was a mistake, then leave again with you when you're ready to go.”

“No,” he says. “He'll suspect something.”

“But don't you think it's more likely he'll suspect something if I stay here?” My heart is beating faster now, the ideas trickling down from my brain to my fingers and toes like currents of energy. “He knows I'm here, and he knows Lucien is dead so my money is running out. If he even suspects you saw me when you were here, you'd be safer if I came home.”

“You were the one who said you couldn't go back and pretend.”

“I couldn't do it forever,” I say, “but I could for a little while.”

“He already knows about us, remember? That's why he sent me up there to see if I'd rat you out. You can't just come back and pretend like before.”

“Why not?”

“He'll know something's up.”

“Then I could say I came back because I missed you.”

“No.”

“Emilio, please,” I say, hating the begging in my voice. “Just think about it for a minute.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because this isn't just about us!”

Shame burns my eyes. He's right. I'm selfish. But he's not being rational, either. If he thought it through, he'd see his family would be safer with me back in Miami too. “What aren't you telling me?”

He doesn't answer. He should say he's telling me everything there is to tell. I might even believe him.

“What's the real reason you don't want me to come back?” I try again.

“It's not safe here.” His voice is missing something. Shine. Rhythm. Feeling.

I can't help it. I picture his eyes like they were from the slit in the closet, lifeless and cruel. “Why not?”

“Your father has enemies—”

“Enough with the enemies! I lived in that house for seventeen years, not knowing about any of it. You're telling me I've spent my whole life in danger?”

“No.”

“Then why are things suddenly not safe?”

“They just are.”

I catch my breath, not sure if I want to understand. “I don't believe you.”

“Fine. But don't come back.”

“My sisters are in that house. If something dangerous was about to happen, my father would do something about that.”

“If he knew.”

I pull myself into a sitting position, gripping the phone tightly. “What does that mean?”

“I'll make sure nothing happens to your sisters.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Nothing. Everything will be fine. I'll be there soon, maybe next week even, but you can't come here, Valentina. You can't.”

“Tell me,” I beg, knowing he won't. He won't. I don't get to know. I don't get to make the plans or the decisions. I don't get to choose. I have to hide and wait for my rescue. My jaw aches, and I realize I'm grinding my teeth.

“Let's talk about where we'll go,” he says softly.

“No.”

“Come on. You wanted to go to New Zealand, didn't you?”

“That was your suggestion.”

“Then where do you want to go?” he asks.

“I don't care.”

“Valentina.”

“What? Don't pretend what I want even matters.”

He sighs. “Of course you matter.”

“
I
do, but what I want doesn't? How is that possible?” I'm pouting like a child, but I don't care. I'm tired of waiting, of being alone.

“Sorry.” He doesn't sound sorry. He sounds determined, and I'm not so sure he knows what he's supposed to be sorry for anyway. This conversation should have gone differently. “I'll call you soon,” he says, “when it's time to leave.”

I don't say anything.

“Valentina. You know I love you.”

Do I? I swallow and try to remember his touch. When he was here and I could feel him, then yes, I knew it. “I love you, too.”

I wait for him to hang up first. After he does, I realize I didn't tell him to be careful. Now it's too late.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

“W
hat are you doing here?” Jacques asks.

I follow his skeptical eye from my mandolin case to my skirt to my lip gloss and blown-out hair.

“It's busy,” I say, ignoring his question. I've never seen Soupe au Chocolat peopled before, but now I understand what it's supposed to be like. Lively. Pulsing. I've only known its empty skeleton, but the people are the blood. They crowd around the bubble-like tables, break up the layers of brown, fill the air with color and warmth and smells other than chocolate. “Is it always this busy?”

Jacques shrugs. “Typical afternoon crowd.”

“Oh.”

“So you're here to eat?”

“What? No. I thought I'd stop by and ask about maybe picking up some extra work.” I clutch the mandolin case with both hands so he can't see my fingers trembling. It's taken me three days to work up the guts to do this. I'm not backing out now.

“You can't clean while we're open,” he says, avoiding eye contact. “And I already have too many on servers.”

“Actually, I was wondering if I could play my mandolin. You know. For tips.” Desperation climbs up my throat and colors my cheeks. Blushing is harder to hide than shaky hands.

Jacques stares at the mandolin case, scratches his arm, glances uneasily around at the crowd.

“I'm not bad,” I say. I hope that's true. I'm not terrible, but I'm not exactly great, either. “I made pretty good money busking outside the Metro before it got cold.”

Another worried look at his tables.

“And I really need the money.”

He sighs and points. “Back corner. And not too loud.”

“It's a quiet instrument,” I say over my shoulder as I follow the direction of his finger. Hope fizzes up inside of me as I get the mandolin out of the case. I'm doing this. It may take a while, maybe even a few weeks, but if Jacques doesn't mind and his customers aren't too stingy and I don't waste a cent of it, I'll eventually have enough money for a plane ticket home.

I play without looking up. I watch my fingers, pretending the people away. Still, I can feel their judging eyes and hear the occasional clink of coins in my glass tip jar—even the rare rustle of a bill being stuffed in.

When I run out of music and do look up, the people are different. The earlier diners have been replaced by another round of customers, so I cycle through my repertoire again. And again. I don't know how many times I do it, because I get lost in the melodies, happy for the first time in I don't know how long. I'm going home. I'm not waiting to be rescued, and when Emilio sees me, he'll be relieved I didn't listen to him because we'll be together and we can sort through this mess if we're together.

Jacques's barrel torso enters my peripheral vision, and I break off awkwardly midphrase.

“Time to pack up,” he says.

I stop, eye the half-full tip jar.

“Wednesday night is poetry reading.”

“Night?” I glance out the shop window and realize what I somehow missed. The light has changed, afternoon melting into dusk. “Poetry?”

Jacques shrugs. “Not my thing, but the customers like it.”

“Can I come again tomorrow?” I ask as I lay the mandolin back in its case.

He looks thoughtfully at the tip jar. “I guess.”

“Thank you.”

He doesn't say
you're welcome
, but he hands me a coffee to go and a brown paper bag with a croissant in it.

“Thank you.”

I don't count my money in the café. If he'd wanted me to stay and take up a precious table, he wouldn't have given me the food to go, so I stuff the jar in my purse and sip my coffee as I walk back to the apartment. The wind is biting, but I'm warm with hope and caffeine. That croissant is going to taste like heaven. Anticipation floats me all the way home.

Safe in my closet, I kick off my shoes, sit on my bed, and take the tiniest bites possible. It might be lighter and richer than anything I've ever tasted. Once I've swallowed the last mouthful and licked the pastry flakes from my fingers, I pull the jar out of my purse. I dump its contents on the bed. Coins. Bills. More coins than bills. I separate them, lick the butter on my lips and count. Then I count again. And again. Eighteen dollars and ten cents. I played for four hours and made eighteen dollars and four cents. That's less than five dollars an hour. That's nothing.