Kiss Kill Vanish (36 page)

“So, after midnight.”

“After midnight. If Emilio keeps his promise.”

I try to picture Papi in handcuffs, but the image is so unlikely, Papi being controlled and subservient to anybody or anything. Emilio knows that. He knows Papi won't go willingly.

Marcel reads my mind. “It's going to be messy, isn't it?”

“Not if I make sure he and my sisters are out of there before it can start.”

Marcel takes a deep breath. “If I don't call you to tell you it's done, assume something went wrong and do what you have to do.”

I nod. I don't want to think through the list of things that could go wrong for Marcel.

“So when will you leave here?” he asks.

“I'll get a cab at ten.”

“Are you sure that gives you enough time?”

“I think so. It'll be easier to slip into Vizcaya once the party is in full swing. And the fire—that gets set at eleven?”

“On the dot. I kind of wish I could go to Vizcaya with you. I'd like to say a few parting words to Emilio. With my fist.”

“Which is why it's good you're not coming with me.”

“You don't think I could take him?”

I raise an eyebrow and lean back, pretend to inspect his shoulders. I reach out and circle his bicep with my fingers. “You could take him.”

“What did you even see in him?”

“Lies.” I think of the Emilio I thought I knew. What, if any of that, was real? “But that makes him easier to hate now.”

Marcel digests that. The warmth drains from the light around us as the sun sets. Tonight has to happen.

I order room service while he organizes the supplies he gathered, and then we take our final meal out onto the balcony. The night is moonless, but star-heavy. I try not to look up. Instead I watch boats slice in and out of the harbor toward the mouth of the Miami River. The way they carve paths through the water reminds me of being in Venice with Papi last spring, of sitting in a gondola and trailing my fingers in the Mediterranean. I don't want to think about that either.

“Not hungry?” Marcel points to my plate.

I twirl my fork through the pasta—shrimp fettuccini alfredo—and take a bite. I'm too nervous for it to taste good, so I put the fork down. “I ate too much earlier.”

When he's done, we go back inside. I change into my dress and sit on the edge of the bed while he gets ready. I watch him do the little things: unplug his cell phone, slip it into his back pocket, organize his supplies, pack them into a small black bag. His precision is reassuring. He's careful. He'll be fine.

But none of this feels fine. I'm not sure how I've managed to squander so many hours with Marcel, how I wasted it feeling the wrong things. Thinking about Emilio made me blind to everything else.

“I guess it's time,” he says, glancing at the clock.

“What if something bad happens?”

“Something bad
is
going to happen. That's the point.”

“Right. I know.” I nod, trying to keep the worry from creeping up and out of me. I don't want him to see it. “Maybe you should just stay here, though. Forget the yacht and the drugs. I'll go to Vizcaya and warn my father.”

“No.” His voice is firm. “I'm not doing this just for you.”

Lucien. Of course.

He pulls a long-sleeve black shirt over his T-shirt. “Ready,” he says, looking around the room. “Don't forget your phone.”

“I won't.” I follow him to the door, trailing at an awkward distance. “Be careful. And if something doesn't seem right, just leave. Remember, you don't have to do this.”

“Yes, I do. And this is the easy job—all I need to do is screw up one little piece of his plan and everything falls apart for him.”

“Are you talking about my father or Emilio?”

“Both.”

He turns at the door like he wants to say more.

It's my only chance. I'm not sure that I'm going to take it until I'm reaching for him, rolling up on my tiptoes, pulling him down by his arms so my lips can reach his lips. I close my eyes. We're somewhere else.

It's a second or two before his surprise melts and he's kissing me back. The injuries slide away—lies, insults, grief, guilt—those things never happened. He's kissing me earnestly enough that for one desperate second, I forget who I am.

When he breaks away, a chill rolls through me.

“Promise me you'll get out before midnight,” he whispers, holding my chin in his hand.

“I promise.”

“No matter what. Even if you don't hear from me.” He steps away from me.

The chill is stronger now. I want to grab him and make him stay. “No matter what.”

He's nods. And he goes to leave, but he hesitates, and in the pause I imagine he's changing his mind. As he's stepping toward me, I think he's decided sabotage isn't worth the risk, and while he's kissing me again, harder and more desperately, I'm almost certain he won't go tonight. He'll wait here for me, and we'll leave Miami together.

But then he lets go of me and he's gone. The door slams so loudly my breastbone rings.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

S
ix minutes.

I sit. My feet aren't throbbing so much as aching now, and when I prop them up on a pillow, they stop hurting altogether. Or I stop noticing.

I'm waiting again, staring at the clock, but this clock is sleek and silver with black numbers. I don't doubt that it keeps accurate time. I thought I left waiting in Montreal, but this is different because it isn't futile.

I should be thinking about what I'll say to Papi, but it's hard to believe I'm going to be seeing him soon. I've been refusing to think about the conversation in case thoughts lead to feelings and feelings lead to cowardice. I don't want to back out. I can't back out now.

Five minutes.

Vizcaya is a labyrinth, with its dozens of back stairways and corners and closets to hide in. I'll have my pick of them, but I may not need to get lost in the twists and turns, since the balcony rooms that overlook the great hall are hardly ever used during parties. When I was younger, I would spy on the guests from up there. Lola pretended she was old enough to be part of the party and Ana clung to her, but I had a better time watching from above.

Or I could hide safely outdoors. The official Vizcaya Gardens on one side of the mansion stretch for acres, but there's a smaller, torch-lit lawn on the other side between the house and the water. I could wait there, and I'd be sure to see him when he came out to smoke.

Four minutes.

I picture Papi with his lips curled around a Cuban, fat fingers holding it in place, and feel a pang of nostalgia.

But Yolanda Rojas. The image slams me before I can finish the thought. The dainty white earrings and daffodil dress, soaking, dragging, smearing blood. And her toes. The undersides of them were coated, like the soles of a baby's feet dipped in paint to capture a footprint.

I wiggle my toes. It's just my subconscious, but the connection is made, from her to me and me to her. We're not so different. How could Papi do it?

My mind has done something to the image. It's not a photograph anymore. It's a painting, a morbid interpretation. My brain has turned it even more garish, and now this exaggerated version of her death—screaming scarlet, pulsing fuchsia blooms, shrill blue sky—burns behind my eyes. I blink. Still there. My forever nightmare.

Three minutes.

I should let Emilio arrest Papi. I should call Marcel and insist he leave the yacht alone.

Instead I stand, walk over to the table, and stretch the wig over my head. Once I've finger-combed the bangs and tucked all my hair into it, I stare at the girl in the mirror. She's not me. I like her, though. She's guiltless—no sins, no conscience—and she's vengeful. It's amazing how little it takes to become someone else. That I can lose myself behind a little synthetic fringe is miraculous. I'm not the daughter of a monster, or the pawn of a spy, or the model of an egomaniacal artist. I've turned myself into the woman in the mirror.
I
have.

I run my hands over the dress. Is it because Marcel picked it out for me that I feel so beautiful? Our kiss rubs at my thoughts as I pick through the cosmetics. Did it even happen? Will it happen again?

Two minutes.

Then again, they've all lied. I'm not sure why Marcel would be any different.

I shove that thought away and start applying makeup, mentally congratulating the Sephora salesgirl as I go. Marcel bought everything on my list, plus more than a few extra items she must've talked him into. I paint it on thick, thicker than I've worn since the last time I sat for Lucien. When I'm done, my face is as unfamiliar as my hair.

No need to try on both pairs of shoes. This is not a ballet flats dress. I slide my feet into the stilettos, ignoring the burn at the balls of my feet when I stand. Mind over body.

One minute.

It's time. I take a careful look around the hotel room, trying to ignore the strange, sentimental tug pulling at me. I'll be back later tonight. Marcel will be here with me. With that deliberate vow as my last thought, I grab the sequined clutch and leave.

The night is warm and breezy, but the taxi is utterly swampish. “AC's broken,” the driver explains before I even ask.

“Vizcaya, please.”

He screeches away from the Setai without so much as a nod.

I don't buckle up. I don't want to touch anything in this dark, soggy space, with its sour-breath smell. It feels like I'm inside the mouth of an animal, perched on a moist, panting tongue. Sweat pools under my arms, between my thighs, beneath my breasts as we lurch through traffic. I silently pray it doesn't stain the dress. I don't look out the window. Instead I focus on the ragged gashes in the back of the driver's seat, where it looks like something tried to claw its way out.

Thankfully the ride isn't long. “You can just let me out here,” I insist, as we swerve off Bayshore Drive into the entrance. I peer out the window at the brass gates of Vizcaya. The letters of the estate's name gleam with opulence and promise.

“You sure?” the driver asks, gesturing beyond the gate to the skinny driveway. Towering walls of tropical scrub encroach on either side, and only a few lampposts with weak yellow bulbs dot the way. “I can drive you up. It's not so close. And snakes, you know?”

I hand him a few bills from the wad of cash Marcel left me. “I'm sure.”

He pulls away and I begin walking. One step at a time, my heels bite pavement, each
click
telling me I'm on the road and not sinking into the sandy shoulder or something worse. Something alive. It feels like I'm climbing uphill, but I know the driveway actually descends, that I'm not so far from the ocean.

The sultry sway of Cuban music hits me first, even before I can see the glow of the mansion itself. Next it's the smell of salt, the breeze lifting the ocean up into the air and throwing it at me. And by the time I emerge from the shelter of the driveway and see Vizcaya's immensity glowering down at me, my heart is flying.

I don't pause. I don't stop to consider which entrance will be easiest to slide into unnoticed. This redhead doesn't hesitate, but powers up the stone steps coolly like her nerves aren't on fire.

I glance up. At the front entrance, a man is taking an invitation from a couple and scouring a list for their names, while the woman readjusts herself, tucking excess flesh into strapless satin. It takes a moment, but I place the man. He bought a silk-screen Warhol print from Papi last year. I look down at my feet, and when I get to the top of the stairs I veer left to where two tuxedoed men are laughing and smoking, one tall and youngish, the other with a wry mouth framed by a right-angled goatee. To my relief, I don't recognize them. I give them my biggest smile, though, and join them as if I'd been looking for them, lacing my hand through the younger one's arm.

“You have one of those for me?” I ask, pointing to the cigar in his mouth. No doubt Papi is dispensing them like candy by now.

He's startled for only a moment before looking me up and down. He grins, canines gleaming. “Don't tell me a pretty little thing like you smokes cigars.”

“'Course not.” I look up at him through my eyelashes like Lola does when she's on the prowl, then reach out and take the half-smoked cigar from his hand. His mouth drops open in surprise. I smirk, take a slow pull, and hand it back, pretending my head isn't about to explode with memories and fumes.

I'm not a smoker. When I was eleven, Lola swiped three of Papi's cigars for us girls to try, and we smoked them on the stretch of white beach behind our house. Or Lola and I did. Ana refused, but hung around to watch and whine about oral cancer. Ignoring her, we savagely bit off the ends like we'd seen Papi do a million times, lit them, and sucked in like we meant it. We
did
mean it until the smoke hit our throats, and then we were too busy sputtering and gagging to remember what we meant. Ana watched on with a smile. Lola flung hers into the ocean after two pulls, but I kept smoking, braving it out until mine was no longer than my finger. Bitter mouth and burning eyes, I showed them their baby sister wasn't such a baby. Then I threw up.

My sisters. They're probably inside right now.

Both men are watching me, so I will my throat not to seize up. No coughing, no gasping, I tilt my chin skyward and blow smoke.

“Where do I know you from?” the young one asks with a confused tilt of his head.

I hand him back his cigar and shrug. “Here? Now?”

“Right.” He raises his eyebrows at his friend, who is still looking at me but not at my eyes. I resist the urge to snap my fingers in front of his face.