Drugs, Treasons and Other Demons

38. A TOUGH ONE TO CRACK

The bottle shattered into a million shiny pieces, and Pablo crashed against the door. His eyes never closed, but he fell limp to the floor.

Even before my sight could focus, even before I could take a breath, I was running down the corridor, teetering on top of my frail legs, powering off of every single drop of strength and adrenalin I had left.

I hadn't hit Pablo hard enough. I could hear him gargling in pain, moaning in confusion, splashing as he struggled to stand up in a growing puddle of water. He called my name out three times. The first time as a question, the second as a cry, the last as a raging bellow, that echoed through the hall.

The paintings hanging in the hallway looked like a blur, their colors splattered like vomit on a backdrop of terracotta walls. I was already dry heaving, from primal fear and from exhaustion, and I was only on the third floor.

I burst through the corridor, bolted down marble stairways, blinded by the harsh daylight reflecting on pristine white stones all around me. There were only a few dozen steps standing between me and freedom. That, and three guards, standing by the heavy front door.

I jumped over the handrails just as the men threw themselves at me. I kicked, and punched, and thrashed like a madwoman to keep them away, expecting to be grabbed, tackled, body-slammed onto the cold tiles by one of the colossal guards, but as I darted in the kitchen, crashing my way through the door, I realized they hadn't followed me.

I froze in my tracks, and looked over my shoulder. The guards were gone. I wondered if I'd lost my mind. Where was I going? What was I doing? Why was I stopping?

Cold sweats rolled down my temples. A second ago, the guards were right behind me, and now Pablo must have been right on my heels. Yet I couldn't bring myself to make a move, not even a single step. If the cats had stopped chasing the rat, it might have been because they knew there was a bigger beast waiting on the other side of the fence.

I stood still for a few seconds, trying to catch my breath and a glimpse of the quiet garden through the kitchen windows. Slowly, and anything but surely, I walked into the lion's den.

"Emilia!" shouted a high-pitched voice. "You're back!"

Such a joyful tone shouldn't have brought me to the brink of tears. For once, someone was happy to see me. That someone was Andrea, with a glass of white wine in her hand, perfect curls blissfully bouncing around her face, wearing a dress so short that Oscar had to tug on its hem when she stood up to stop her from exposing herself.

Gazes slowly lifted, shifting from Andrea's round butt to my startled face. I stared back at them. Everyone was there, except Pablo. I recognized some of the faces, although there were a couple I didn't know. About a dozen people sat around the table on the patio, and had apparently just finished their lunch. Among them, I saw Oscar, Beto Arias, Hernan and Juan Sandoval, Manée, and obviously, Gustavo.

"Look at that," croaked the latter with a fake smile. "We have a revenant."

"Don't listen to him," tutted Andrea. "You look great."

"Thanks," I answered with a weak smile.

I nervously tugged on a knot at the back of my hair. The frilly sweater I'd thrown on, as I planned this hopeless attempt at an escape, did little to hide how malnourished I looked.

"How was your trip?" she asked.

I gave her a blank stare. So that was the excuse they used to make me disappear. Emilia went on a vacation and she won't be coming back. Just like when you tell the kids that the family dog went to live on a farm, so you don't have to tell them their Dad accidentally ran it over with the car this morning and now it's dead.