Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 71949 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71949 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
But it’s also those girls in my father’s office.
I never let myself think about them. Why now, of all times, did they edge themselves into my head?
A door I keep nailed shut has blown open. Five little girls lined up in the doorway, bows in their hair, shoes polished. Their hands clasped like they’re about to say a prayer. And I’m sixteen again, humiliated and terrified and forced to choose which one my father will hurt next.
I press my fingertips into my eyelids until stars burst. I breathe in through my nose, out through my mouth, count to four, to six, to eight.
“Hey,” Raven says. “It’s okay. Let it out.”
Belinda.
If it is Diego Vega, and if he does have Belinda…
Those girls in the office. They weren’t much older than she is now.
And Diego Vega has no morals. No scruples. He’ll do worse than Declan McAllister could have done to her.
Raven squeezes my shoulder. “We don’t know that she’s been taken. It’s possible she ran away looking for answers. I know you don’t want to hear that, but—”
“No.” I say it too fast, too hard. I force myself to moderate. “No. Even if she was curious about her father, he wouldn’t do it this way. Not after what he did to her.”
Vinnie nods once, opens his mouth, but then jolts when his phone buzzes. He looks at it. “It’s security at the front gate.”
“At this hour?” Raven says.
Vinnie answers. “This is Gallo.”
Pause.
“Yes, of course. Let him in.” He ends the call. “It’s Chef Charleston. He says he thought of something.”
My stomach twists.
A moment later the doorbell rings. Vinnie leaves the family room and returns a few minutes later with Chef.
“Chef,” I say.
“Daniela.” He looks to Raven. “Ms. Bellamy.”
“Raven, please.”
“Forgive my intrusion at this hour.”
I choke back my last sob. “I intruded on you. There’s nothing to forgive. Whatever it is must be important.”
Chef clears his throat. “This whole thing is shocking. Really. Our neighborhood is quiet. That’s why we moved there. When my friend visited last week, he couldn’t believe you could hear the crickets and cicadas at night. He kept laughing that he’d never slept in a place where the only sound was the night itself. At home—where he grew up—there were sirens and, you know, sometimes… gunfire.” Chef winces. “I don’t mean to be flippant. I just… I can’t believe someone would try to coerce a little girl—” He stops abruptly.
Is this what he came to say to us in the middle of the night? I’m not sure why he’s here.
“What can we do for you, Chef?” Vinnie asks.
“It’s my friend,” Chef says. “While I was thinking about all of this, I realized something. About him.”
“What’s that?” From Raven.
“Well, he was here recently.”
Vinnie raises his eyebrows. “Was he at your place the night of the sleepover?”
“He left the day before. No—” Chef shakes his head. “Two days before. I drove him to the airport midweek.”
“So he wasn’t there that night,” Raven says.
“Right,” Chef says. “But he was around last week, and if someone had been skulking around the cul-de-sac then, he might have noticed.”
“Did he mention anything like that?” I ask. “Anyone hanging around? Any car parked where it shouldn’t be?”
“No.” Chef spreads his hands. “He said what I told you, that it was quiet. Almost too quiet. He teased that he needed city noise to fall asleep.”
“Where’s he from?” Vinnie asks.
“That’s what I’m getting at,” Chef says. “He and I met at the Worldchefs Congress years ago. You go to these things and make small talk, sure, but sometimes you meet someone you can talk to for hours. He and I bonded over chocolate. South American varietals, fermentation profiles—the geeky stuff.”
My stomach churns. South American chocolate. Is this going where I think it’s going?
“We kept in touch,” Chef goes on. “We try to visit each other every other year, trade kitchens, so to speak. This was my turn to host.”
“Where does he live?” I ask. My heart ratchets up a notch. The girls in my head blur. My father’s office blurs. Even the thought of Belinda fades for a second.
Chef inhales. “In Colombia.”
I drag in a deep breath. “What’s his name?”
“That’s what I thought might be important,” Chef says. “Maybe you know him. You’re from Colombia.”
“What’s his name?” I ask again. My pulse is a drum.
Chef lifts his palms. “American name, strangely. I never asked why. I assumed his father was American, married a local woman, stayed in-country. You find histories like that in our industry. People move, and kitchens move with them.”
Raven shifts. Vinnie goes still as a guard dog who’s picked up a scent.
“What’s his name?” I say a third time.
But I already know.
Chef came back for a reason, because of something he didn’t think about until he started linking everything together.
In the space between my question and his answer, a dozen images flood my brain—stainless-steel countertops, a knife with a sapphire handle, a hand on the back of my neck, a thick and smelly cock burning down my throat.