Page 131 of A Taste like Sin

SUNLIGHT STREAMS IN THROUGH MY BEDROOM WINDOW, PAINTING THE MUTED COLOR SCHEME IN A

golden glow. It’s as if nature itself decided to conspire with the whims of Damien Villa. He told me to

forget—but I remember resolutely.

For now, the dark, grisly images are mere snippets, but they linger in my mind as I stagger into my

living room. Unsurprisingly, reality contradicts nearly every single one.

There is no dead police chief lying on my carpet. The sliding glass door to my balcony is closed.

Every item and piece of furniture is perfectly in place. When I scan the top news stories on my cell

phone, only my father’s improving status makes the headlines. The only flaw in the design I notice is

when I pass the fridge and spot my distorted reflection.

Gasping, I brush my fingers along my throat. The violent, purplish discoloration could be a trick of

the light—but the agony I’ve been ignoring with every breath I take isn’t.

A part of me giggles internally as I slump against the counter, my face in my hands. New memories to

torment me. A new monster to haunt my nightmares. I brace my hands over the marble in front of me,

and by accident, the fingers of my left brush something unfamiliar: a folded piece of paper.

On it, someone scribbled:Julio is stationed on you twenty-four-seven unless you decide to revoke

him. I’ve taken the liberty of removing your garbage and it has been disposed of. I’ll set up

meetings with any remaining mutual acquaintances. If you need me, you know where to find me,

dulce niña. Otherwise, I will respect whatever boundary you set. Adios, Damien.

Some claimed that the bigger a man was the harder he fell.

But sometimes he needed to fall. Only then, in the aftermath of the chaos, could he reassemble from

the broken pieces the parts of himself that had been lost in the façade. He wasn’t perfect. He wasn’t a

monolith of wisdom, integrity, or stellar judgment.

He was human.

And it took my father nearly a grueling month of intensive recovery to realize that. His smile isn’t

smug as he faces a throng of reporters waiting beyond the hospital’s main doors. He looks tired and

older than ever.

But in his exhausted, haggard expression, I see hints of the man who rescued me all those years ago.

My old childhood hero.

“Should we face the cavalry?” he wonders as Diane and I flank him on either side, each of us holding

a papery hand of his. His security team surrounds us at a respectful distance, but as we step from the