Page 48

But that’s okay, I told myself, because he’s magical. Mystical. Bound to my family.

He’ll protect me. Find me. Measly little humans can’t stop him.

IT WAS ALL A DREAM. All of it.

I know, because I can smell the stale cigarette smell that always lingers and feel the thin, scratchy blanket under my cheek.

I’m in a hotel room. Where else would I be? I’ve lived in hotels for months.

I blink away the bad dream, holding still as I wonder how much champagne Matteo and I poured into each other last night. My jaw hurts, and it feels like I’ve been munching on cotton.

Matteo. Even though I know now that it was all a dream, as I struggle to sit up, I’m not... happy. I realize that I need more. That strange hangover dream about agents and murders and a hero named Reggie has shown me how I want to live my life.

I struggle to make Matteo a part of it, even though I remind myself that he’s not really the villain. It was a bad dream. A nightmare.

Wasn’t it?

I try to call to Matteo, but my mouth won’t open. My eyes are fuzzy, and my wrists hurt.

“She’s awake. Put Estrada on.”

“Shhh! Fuckwad! Don’t say his name.”

“Like she’s going to say anything.”

A warm piece of plastic is shoved next to my head, and the fabric that wedged my jaws open and rendered me unable to talk is ripped out of my mouth.

A voice crackles too loudly in my ear. The shout of a phone’s speaker makes me jump. “Therese? This is a friend of Matteo’s.”

The voice catches me off guard. It’s pleasant and lilting, the voice of an older man with a rich accent that rolls. Columbian? Mexican? I don’t know.

I know now that my nightmare was real, and this is the sequel. Part One: Therese’s Marriage is a Sham. This is Part Two: Therese is the Victim.

“Can you talk, my dear?”

I’m too stunned. Who the hell would call me “my dear” after tying me up? Well, he’s on the phone, so I assume that he didn’t tie me up himself, but he’s responsible for it!

Hey, that was pretty logical for someone who can’t tell if she’s in a dream or not. Good brain.

A rough hand smacks my cheek lightly, at just the right angle to sting.

“Answer him!”

“I’m here!” I croak. I’m so glad I made it to the bathroom before this all happened. Even so, the urge to vomit or void is overtaking me. “I need to sit up. I’m serious. I don’t feel—”

“It’s fine, my dear. A little side effect, that’s all. You’ll be fine in a few hours. Now, this ugly mess of Matteo’s... It must be dealt with. You know that the police have pinned nasty things on him.”

What am I supposed to say to that? I don’t want to admit my role in all of this—but I’m guessing they already know. How much do they know, that’s the question. I pick a safe answer. “I heard.”

“Because of you.” The pleasant voice hardens.

“Not because of me.Hedid it. I just saw it.” I bite my lip. I should stop talking. Reggie would tell me to—

Oh my God. Reggie. Things make more sense as whatever they gave me starts to fade. If they got me, they got to me through Reggie. There is no way they could have grabbed me without incapacitating him.

A bomb couldn’t stop him. What did they do? Howcouldthey stop him? I picture the worst—clay slabs cut into pieces. Little bits of my lover, the only man I think I’ve ever truly loved, crumbled up like pebbles, desperately trying to piece himself together to rescue me.

I blink and realize that there is a piece of gauze or mesh tied over my eyes. I can see fuzzy shapes and outlines, but no more. My tears are choked by this stretchy nylon trap. “What did you do to him?” I demand. “Is he still alive?”