Selective/Memory: The "Depth of Emotion" Book 2 (The Depth of Emotion) (38 page)

“Aria found this building when Declan was on a shoot. She bought it for him,” he explained.

Blake looked surprised, as Declan smiled in remembrance.

“It was the first time we fought,” Declan said, looking at him.

“Fought?” Paige stated. “Blowout would be more like it. She saw all of this in her mind’s eye…” she said, sweeping her hand around the room as Blake followed with his eyes.

“You never told me that, Dec,” Blake said.

Declan shrugged. “I was really pissed at her at the time. I couldn’t believe that she’d take such a big step without me.” Countering to Paige, he added, “Obviously, I was wrong.”

“Yes, you were,” Paige said. “My girl knows her stuff!”

Returning to the paperwork, Declan remarked, “…and now she wants to
give
it to me—not even sell it. What’s she trying to do Paige?” he asked.

She softened her look, indicating that he already knew what she was about to say, but she said it for him.

“She wants to give you the one thing that, she thinks, means the most to you—The Studio.”

He had been carefully weighing his words around everyone other than Carter and Blake to hide his feelings until more details could be uncovered in Lacey’s death, but try as he might, it was appearing to be a dead end. Marisol wasn’t giving up any leads, and Carter was just telling him that he didn’t want him to mess up anything he might have with Aria. There was no more evidence, so there was no longer a need for him to pretend.

Stuffing the papers back in the envelope, he placed it on the desk.

“I’m not accepting it. I’ll tell her myself, Paige,” he said.

“She’s not going to like it. You’ll insult her,” Paige said with a hint of cynicism.

“Then she’ll have to get over it,” he said, wearing a smug look. “The Studio doesn’t mean the most to me—she does—and if I accept this, then nothing legally ties me to her.”

He smirked at Paige as she began to understand his meaning, and Carter and Blake could see a plan coming together.

Paige stood, smiling, as she gathered her things.

“Okay, if you say so. I’ll leave it to you to tell her,” she happily said.

As she turned to leave, she gave Carter a kiss on the cheek, as well as Blake.

“I hope it works out better than Hawaii.”

Approaching Declan, she hugged him and moved to peck him on the cheek too, speaking low into his ear.

“She won’t be home until late tonight, so try to get her tomorrow,” she informed him. “Just thought I’d give you a head’s up.”

He tried to hide his disappointment.

“Oh, yeah? She have hot plans?” he asked, trying not to express even a hint of jealousy, but Paige patted his hand as she grabbed her handbag.

“Poor guy,” she halfheartedly sympathized. “No. It’s all business. She’s meeting with someone from the Vencedor Corporation.”

The moment she’d finished her sentence, everyone and everything within the room came to an immediate standstill…

Marchelle quietly entered the house. Walking over to the bottom of the stairs, she heard the shouts, so she remained on the lower level. When she looked upstairs, she saw Aria tied up, and her sister wasn’t happy with her. Whatever caused Marisol to restrain Aria in such a manner, she knew her sister had a very good reason—she always did.

Poor Aria
, she thought.

Afraid to be near Marisol when she was so unloving and hostile, Marchelle remained downstairs, tucking herself away inconspicuously, as she always did.

When the shouting had stopped and all became quiet, she walked to the upstairs to see Marisol.

“Good. You’re back,” Marisol said.

She pointed to Aria, laying unconscious on the floor, and gave her sister an order.

“Help me to get her up.”

Marchelle helped her sister to get Aria’s limp and unconscious body upright, and back over near the stairs. Once Marisol finished arranging Aria so that she could see her from a seat at her table, she delivered a carefully prepared dissertation of lies to Marchelle.

“This woman treated me terribly. She made my life miserable. She took things of mine that did not belong to her. She stole from me, so that means she stole from you too. Do you understand?” she asked.

Marchelle nodded her head.

“Good,” she said, confident that she needn’t worry about her sister being a complication. “Don’t you worry,” Marisol soothed. “She needs to be punished for stealing from us. I’ll make sure she’s punished severely enough so she can’t hurt us again. I’ll take care of it”—she smiled at Marchelle— “just as I always do.”

She began to push Marchelle out of the room.

“Just go somewhere so she can’t see you when she regains consciousness. I’ll call for you when I need you,” she instructed.

Marchelle ran off, eager to no longer be an object of attention for Marisol. She didn’t like to be around her when she was angry. Although she felt bad for the woman in the chair, there was nothing she could do to help her…

Yes,
she must have done something very, very bad
…

Aria didn’t know how long she’d been out, but she knew it was now night time. Although hazy, she attempted to adjust her vision as her eyes slowly roamed the room for a hint of familiarity. She could tell her one eye was now swollen as her vision was narrowed to barely a sliver on that side. Her chair had been placed upright and moved. She was precariously angled near a set of stairs that led down and to the outside patio.

As she attempted to look over her shoulder, she saw that toward her back was a large window. Though dark, she heard water in that same direction. Her memory began to serve her as she recalled remodeling this house. She and Paige had been here a few times since its completion. The thoughts lead her to wonder what had happened to Mister or Miss Vencedor.

What had Marisol done with them, or did she know them at all? Where were they? Had she hurt them also?

“Well, hello, Aria. So nice of you to rejoin me.”

Marisol’s cryptic voice that came from behind startled Aria, sending her heart racing and her breathing into a hyperactive state.

She came into Aria’s sight, walking over to a table across from Aria, where she had poured herself some wine. An elegantly curved glass sat next to a crystal ashtray. It appeared that at least one glass had been consumed while she was unconscious.

Focus, Aria. Focus!

Her shoulders, neck, and arms were sore and stiff from the bindings. Slowly moving her head, she felt a monstrous jolt of pain in her face, and she was certain she had a fracture in her cheekbone. When an attempt was made to open her mouth, all she felt was swollen tissue.

Thinking it imperative to remain aware of all Marisol’s activities, she forced herself to look ahead of her, directly at her captor. She was setting up a make-up stand near the table.

Really? She’s going to do her make-up? What the hell kind of crazy is she?

Mirrors and brushes could be seen through Aria’s impaired vision, but as she strained for closer inspection, terror gripped at her throat. Metal implements and instruments of the sharp and pointed variety, much like one would see in manicuring or esthetics, were also being laid on the table—one by one—and she felt a tear escape.

“Aww…What’s wrong, Aria?” Marisol clipped, asking her from the short distance. “Afraid of a little makeup lesson?”

She paused, peeking around the case. Aria’s reaction caused her to laugh under her breath as she saw the look of terror her victim wore. Arrogantly, she gathered a few implements in a towel that she placed in her hand.

Kicking off her pumps, she lost some of her imposing height as she stood in front of Aria. She lowered her chin just barely to the top of Aria’s head.

“Look at me,” she ordered.

When Aria didn’t comply in a protective attempt, it fueled Marisol’s anger. She lifted her knee forcefully, hitting her squarely in the chin.

As Aria groaned in pain, she repeated loudly, “I said—Look. At. Me!”

Marisol raised Aria’s puffy and tear-stained face toward her, forced to watch as a thin metal blade came toward her face. Aria tried to jerk, but Marisol grabbed her by the hair.

“I think we should begin by giving you a nice contour line—
right along your jawline
…” she said, slicing the razor sharp blade along the left side of Aria’s jaw.

Aria cried out, a high pitched scream, but Marisol roared with laughter as she continued to slice. She didn’t cut deep, slicing only to disfigure and cause pain.

Throwing Aria’s head back when she was finished, Marisol pushed away from her, moving back to her station of tools.

Aria, bordering to struggle with hysteria, mumbled as she tried to cry out, “Why are you doing this? Do you hate me that much?”

Dismissing her question, Marisol entertained the next method of suffering she’d force her captive to incur.

“I neither hate, nor like you, really,” Marisol said with an inconsequential air.

Holding up a piece of shiny metal so Aria could see it, she looked at her to insure the best vantage point with which to lavish her sadism.

“You are in my way, so you have to go,” she simply stated, and she returned her attention to selecting the next implement.

The tears began to make their way down Aria’s face, finding their way into her fresh wounds and burning them with their salt.

“Have you ever felt remorse?” she tried to ask, her speech distorted from the swelling. “Are you sorry for anything you’ve done?”

“No,” Marisol replied, looking up as if in thought. “Not really. I didn’t feel any remorse when Carter’s wife died, and I don’t feel anything now.”

Aria’s eyes went wide. She tried to process the statement Marisol had made, not wanting to believe the implication.

“What do you mean? You don’t know about that? You didn’t even know Lacey. Declan would never take you to meet her,” she rambled.

Insulted, Marisol stopped what she was doing and glared at Aria.

“Why would you think that, Aria?” Marisol asked angrily. “Are you implying that you don’t think I was good enough to meet her?”

Marisol came around the table, picking up her wine glass along the way. She leaned back against it, as if she were about to have a conversation with an old friend, except her anger seethed like molten lava, eager to erupt.

“You really don’t understand, do you?” she continued, looking at Aria, almost mocking an expression of pity—if it were possible for her to actually feel anything. “Declan was going to be at his brother’s home, and so were you. I was going there too, to get him…to hurt you—I don’t know—however it would have worked out to get what I wanted—which was him,” she said, shrugging her shoulders. “Lacey was in the road on a bike. She shouldn’t have been in the way.”

She shrugged again, indifferently, and drained the glass, reaching behind her for the bottle to refill it.

Pained at the image, Aria, choked on the words.

“Y—you killed Lacey? Just left her there, in the road…to die? How could you do that? How could you get away with that? They would have seen the damage to the car,” Aria cried out, devastated at what was just revealed to her.

“You really are pathetic…I do not understand what he sees in you!” Marisol chided. “Of course they saw the damage. I said it was a deer, you idiot. You know,
sand girl
,” she mocked, “I’m from the big city. Money talks. If you pay someone enough of it, they don’t ask questions.”

She held her wine glass out, in a victorious posture.

Tears flowed freely down Aria’s face. The physical suffering sheared through her brain, and the emotional ache ripped her heart apart. What made her agony more torturous was the pain Carter and Declan would suffer—if they ever were to learn the truth.

Another afflicting thought occurred to her, and she tried to lean forward, fearful her distress would make her vomit.

“What about the Vencedors’?” she asked, broken with sobs. “Did you hurt them, too?”

Marisol broke into a smile, laughing with delight.

“You’re worried about the Vencedors’?” she asked. “You REALLY are an imbecile!”