Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 72969 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72969 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
“Yeah, we saw it. But did anyone else? Was there a body? A funeral?” Eagle runs a hand through his hair. “This is the kind of shit that keeps me up at night, Hawk.”
His words hang heavy in the room. I can’t ignore the fear in his eyes or the weight in his voice. The past has a way of catching up with us, no matter how fast or far we run.
My mind is a whirlwind of thoughts and questions, but one stands out among the rest—if Diego Vega is alive—or was alive recently—then who the fuck is buried underneath our barn?
Eagle shot a man.
A man he knew as Diego Vega.
Falcon and I buried him and his stash below the floorboard of the old barn.
“We need to talk to Vinnie,” I say finally, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside me. “We need to know exactly what he knows.”
“Right, that’s another thing,” Eagle says. “Raven asked if he’d recognize the photo evidence when it came through. Vinnie said, yeah, that he first met Vega when he was about to turn eighteen, and he recognized him when he was in Colombia. He said he’d never forget those cold and calculating eyes. Man, he was talking about the same guy. He had to be. Vega had the meanest eyes.”
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I didn’t make a to-do list today, but if I had?
Digging up a dead body would not have been on it.
20
DANIELA
No cooking yet, but I did get asked out to a water park by a handsome man who does absolutely nothing for me.
I made three new friends.
But oh, how I missed Belinda.
As I drive home, I can’t wait to see her. It’s so wonderful to finally have a child.
She’s not my child, of course. She’s nearly twelve, which means I would have had to have her when I was six years old.
I’ve always wanted a child.
And Belinda is the closest I’ll ever get to a child of my own.
On a whim, I stop for ice cream. Belinda loves ice cream.
I sit down and have a scoop of Pink Cadillac—strawberry with Oreo cookies. I usually eat my ice cream plain, but Pink Cadillac is Bee’s favorite. It’s actually pretty delicious. I splurge for a waffle cone and eat it at the venue. Then I buy a pint to take home to Belinda.
Like me, she wasn’t allowed to have ice cream often as a child.
I love doing little things like this for her. Little things to put a smile on a face that has had too few smiles for her lifetime.
She won’t grow up like me.
She’ll learn to have a good relationship with a man.
I’ll help her.
I’ll take care of her.
Because she’s my child.
After all, I’ve slept with her father.
Two Years Earlier…
I’m pregnant again.
And this time, I’m keeping my baby.
My father won’t force me to get rid of it.
I don’t know who the father is. There were three men since my last cycle—Diego Vega, Derek Wolfe, and another American named Declan McAllister.
Since I never went beyond about eight weeks with the other two pregnancies, my body is staying firm, and by the time I show in the third trimester, I’ll make excuses or something.
It will be too late to do anything then.
I touch my belly.
“Brisa,” I say. “That’s your name.”
I gave my first two children gender-neutral names since I didn’t know their sex. Rio—River—was first. Then Luz, light. This one is Brisa—breeze.
That will be his or her name when the baby comes.
I’ve been wearing baggy clothes around the house even though I’m not showing. That way, it won’t seem unusual when I have to wear loose clothing.
It’s not that difficult to conceal a pregnancy, right? I mean, you hear stories all the time about how women go to the hospital with gas pains and end up with a baby, having had no idea they were even pregnant.
I wear hoodies now. Even though it’s spring and warm enough that most people are trading theirs for crop tops and sundresses, I cling to mine. I read somewhere—on some forum where the usernames are all fake and the confessions are real—that loose layers are key in the first trimester. Especially if you’re small. They say you can pass off the bloat as bad posture or a heavy lunch, and that baggy clothes buy you time.
I need time.
I keep thinking about how tiny the baby is right now. How it’s not even the size of a plum yet. They compare it to fruit in the articles—peach, lime, avocado.
I memorized the tricks. The safe foods. The warning signs. I drink more water, eat saltines, keep mints in every pocket.
If I can carry this baby long enough, eventually it will be too late for my father to abort it.
I trudge through the morning sickness. Pasting a smile on my face, eating my meals.