Page 91 of His To Erase

What are we doing in Puerto Rico?

I haven’t been back since I was a kid. Since my mother told me to stop asking questions and just keep packing. My heart starts pounding again, but it’s not fear. Not really. It’s something else.

“Keep your head down,” Frank mutters.

His voice is cold again. All business. Back to his usual brand of narcissistic God complex—with his shoulders straight and that silent assumption that the world should part for him wherever he walks.

I do as I’m told. Only because my skull still hurts from the last time I didn’t.

We reach the car, and the door swings open like it’s been waiting. No one speaks.

Inside, the air conditioning hits like a slap—freezing and sterile. I fold my arms in my lap, as best I can with my wrists tied together, like that’ll somehow help me stay calm, and I stare out the window trying not to freak out.

Bayamón.

The name flares in my mind like static—hot and foreign, yet familiar. I haven’t said it out loud in years.

We drive for what feels like forever—through winding roads, sun-baked hills, and fields of tall grass. The trees start to thicken, and the world closes in. Jungle wraps around the car like it’s trying to keep us out. Or maybe in.

The car turns off the main road. A long, curved driveway appears—lined with white stone pillars and palm trees so thick they block out the light. The gates open without a sound, and that’s when it hits me.

I know this place. I don’t know how, because I don’t remember being here. But something inside me lurches—like a string pulled tight. My throat closes and my palms go damp.

I’ve been here before.

Frank leans over, and he’s so close I can feel his breath on my skin. “You like it?” he asks. “It’s mine.”

He has to be wrong. Because even as he says it, the sunlight catches my eyes just right and something shifts. A flash of red. A dress. A woman’s laugh floating through the air, warm and sweet. The sharp curl of perfume. Someone calling my name—in Spanish.

There’s a hallway, covered in paintings. A man’s deep laugh echoing off the stone, and the sound of a cane striking the tile. My head snaps back and I flinch so hard the seatbelt digs into my ribs.

What the hell is happening?

The car slows, pulling to a stop. Frank gets out, slamming the door shut behind him, but I don’t move. I’m staring up at the house, and every inch of my body is screaming…I’ve been here.

One of the men opens my door and the heat hits me again. I don’t move fast enough. A second later, Frank’s back, yanking the door wider. He reaches in, grabbing me by the arm like I’m a ragdoll and not a whole, bruised, chronically sarcastic woman trying not to puke on the seats.

He doesn’t say anything, just pulls me out, causing me to stumble, but catch myself.

The driveway’s made of smooth stone, flanked by tropical flowers that look like they belong on a postcard and not in the nightmare version of House Hunters: Narco Edition.

The estate looms ahead—white, regal, and far too familiar. My feet already know the path and that scares the ever-loving shit out of me. Frank storms up the steps, talking to the guy who opened my door.

I mutter under my breath, “Careful. Wouldn’t want to chip your ego on the stone.”

He throws the front doors open with both hands and I cross the threshold behind him, and the air changes.

Literally.

There’s a shift in pressure, a weight in the room that slams straight into my lungs.

The smell hits me next. It smells like cedar, citrus, and polished wood.

I stop just inside the doorway. Frozen. I am now one hundred percent sure I’ve been here before. Somewhere beneath the bruises and fear—my body remembers.

I’ve seen these walls before. The high ceilings. The sweeping staircase. The painting above the entry table—storm clouds over the ocean, with a ship caught mid-surge, bracing for impact.

I know that painting. My grandfather loved storms. He used to say they reminded him that the world could still surprise him. That not everything bows to power.

The second the memory surfaces, something cracks. I don’t even realize I’ve stopped breathing until my chest aches. It’s stupid, but it hits like a punch to the face. He used to say it with this crooked half-smile, like he knew something the rest of us didn’t.

Frank steps in front of me and turns, arms outstretched. He looks like a fucking game show host at the gates of hell.

“Welcome home,” he says, smiling like this is some kind of grand reveal and I’ve just won a trip to my own personal nightmare.

I blink. Hard.

“No,” I whisper, mostly to myself, because saying it out loud feels like I might be able to undo the entire moment. “This isn’t your home.”

He tilts his head, a smile sharpening into that slow, precise, I could break you without raising my voice look he does so well.

“It is now.”

But I’m not listening anymore. Behind him—down that hallway—I see something that shouldn’t be there.

I see me. Tiny, barefoot, and darting around the corner in a red dress. Laughing. A deep voice calls after me in Spanish— “Anianne, espera, mi amor… cuidado con la escalera…”

And just like that, my knees almost give out.

It hits so fast I don’t have time to brace. One second I’m upright, and the next—I’m swaying, body buckling under the weight of something I don’t even understand yet.

Frank steps forward like he thinks he’s going to catch me and I take a step back because I’d rather hit the floor on my own terms than let him touch me again.

His smile slips as I try to wrap my arms around myself, but can’t. A new voice cuts in.

“Senor Calissi,” the man says, with a thick accent. His tone is clipped and formal. “The lawyer is an hour out. He’ll need the girl cleaned and dressed for confirmation.”

Confirmation?

My stomach lurches. What the hell does that mean?

Frank reaches for me again, but this time I try to slap his hand away with more strength than I knew I had.

“You don’t get to touch me,” I say. But my pulse is rioting in my throat. “Not here.”

His jaw tightens. But his control is slipping. I need to be careful.

He doesn’t hit me. But he leans in, close enough that I can smell how much cologne he used this morning.

“I only need you long enough to say ‘yes,’” he whispers. “After that… you’re expendable.”