She held on tight. “I’ve got you, Mommy,” she said.
“Oh, my sunshine.”
I fought the tears that wouldn’t stop falling.
The fear.
The horror.
My guts brawling.
A riot of evidence and intuition.
How could he?
I peered at the outline of his face where he sat in the driver’s seat of his truck.
Unmoving.
Gripping the steering wheel.
Torment ripping through the air.
And I didn’t want to believe what was staring back at me. Didn’t want to believe he could be involved in something so cruel.
In something so depraved and wicked.
I felt the movement from upstairs, and I slowly turned to find my father staring down at us from the landing.
All the dread and worry he’d been holding for years etched in the deep lines of his face and swimming through his eyes.
“Violeta.”
It was pain.
“Daisy, go with your papa.” I set her onto her feet, and she scampered upstairs.
My daddy looked at me, anxiety whipping around his being. “What’s happening?”
“Just…please watch over Daisy right now. I need some time.”
I couldn’t get his hopes up. Not until I processed. Not until I knew for certain.
His frown deepened, but he relented when Daisy took his hand. He dipped his head in acquiescence. Letting me know he was trusting me and was terrified for me at the same time.
I was terrified for him, too.
For Lily.
For what this meant.
“Come, mi amor. Let’s see if Nana is awake.”
“Okay,” she agreed, and he sent me one more concerned look before he led Daisy down the hall into their room.
I whipped back around.
Richard was still there.
A statue in his truck.
Finally, he started it, the sound of the engine jolting me back, and he whipped around in the dirt and took off down the path.
I could almost feel the disturbance that followed him.
The energy that pulled and pulled.
A taunt.
How could somethin’ that had once felt so beautiful, so real, suddenly feel like a threat?
The second he was gone, I ran back out and gathered up the pictures, shoving them into the folder and holding it against my chest. I raced upstairs and locked my bedroom door.
I sat on the floor with the images spread around. Trying to process and make sense of it all. There were more of them than just of my sister.
There were pictures of the house where she’d been kept.
It was this massive, ostentatious thing surrounded by what had to be a twenty-five-foot brick and wrought-iron wall. The foliage was so thick there wasn’t much that could be made out from the street views other than the big double gates that swung open to a sweeping drive that led into the estate.
The satellite views showed off rambling grounds, a house that looked like some kind of immaculate fortress surrounded by lawn and backed by a huge rectangular pool. A few smaller buildings were laid out around the property that looked like they might be guest houses.
My guts ached.
The idea of my sister being held there.
How could that even be possible?
It seemed unbelievable.
But the most brutal of atrocities were always that way, weren’t they? So grievous and inhumane our minds refused to conjure the intolerable.
Rejecting the possibility that people could be so cruel.
I tried to swallow around the razors of disbelief that cut my insides to shreds.
The evidence of it right there in front of me.
Pictures strewn.
My sister’s beautiful face.
My heart staked like a sin right there with them.
How could he?
A shiver of revulsion flashed across my flesh as my mind went to the man who’d attacked me in the workshop. The lashes of what he’d said.
Had Richard known the reason behind that, too? Had he stood and said he would protect me while he knew firsthand my sister was in danger?
Grief clamped down on my spirit.
“You mean…like what happened to Emily? I saw, Richard, on the news. That somethin’ bad happened to her. It’s horrible. I can’t…”
“Like that. Even worse.”
I buried the gutting pain that made me want to curl into a ball on the floor and tried to focus. Because there were more important things than worrying about my broken heart right then.
I’d have plenty of time for that later.
Still on my knees, I dug for the scrap of paper crumbled inside my pocket, hands shaking as I smoothed it out, then I fumbled to dial the number.
After two rings, a wary voice answered, clearly not sure whether they wanted to accept the call or not.
“Mr. Baronson?” His name hitched on a sob.
“Yes?”
“My name is Violet Marin.” I couldn’t bear to use my married name. Not knowing what Richard had been involved in.
Those pictures emblazoned in my mind. Scored and scarred and never going to heal.
“I’m the one who’d hired the private investigator, David Jacobs, who has been looking for my sister. I understand you might have a daughter who is in the same position? Someone who’s been missin’ as long as my sister has?”