A Taste like Sin Page 15

  You meant nothing to me…

  Just a means to an end.

  And I always get what I want from those with something I desire.

  “Juliana?”

  I groan at the insistent voice—so distant yet so close, murmured inches from my ear. At least I think so…

  My brain is a sluggish collection of thoughts, barely discernible. Groaning again, I try to make sense of anything. My body. My sanity. Gradually, I remember how to force my eyes open and the world comes into focus via blurred, broken snippets glimpsed from behind heavy eyelids.

  A room. White walls. A haggard, worried face wearing an expression so pained that it makes my heart throb.

  “Juliana,” the woman says, her blond hair framing her angular face and her sunken cheeks. Diane. “Darling, can you hear me?”

  I try and fail to nod, but my attempt must come across anyway, because she sighs, raking her trembling hands through her hair.

  “Thank God. I was so worried. They had to sedate you, sweetheart.”

  “S-Sedate,” I echo in a rasp. The word triggers an avalanche of memories.

  Screaming. Crying. A nurse shoving a needle into my arm, her voice resolutely calm.

  “You need to calm down, Ms. Thorne.”

  What a cruel dare. One I have no hope of obeying.

  Because my father was nearly murdered—at least twice. And the man responsible used me to do so.

  Even worse? He’s taunted me with the murder weapon all along.

  How long? I wonder, closing my eyes again as moisture seeps from them regardless. How long was he watching? Waiting?

  “Where am I?” I ask if only to keep from sinking into the myriad of paranoid suspicions.

  “Safe, darling.” Diane smooths her hands along my hair, brushing strands from my face. “A private sitting room. Here.”

  Something cool brushes my lips, urging them to part. When I do, cool liquid drips between them. Water.

  “Any better?” she asks.

  I open my eyes again, this time taking in the narrow space surrounding us. Small. White walls and simplistic furniture. The kind of room dramas and sitcoms have made synonymous with stern doctors issuing bad news.

  “Is he dead?” I whisper. God, I can’t even look at her. My eyes burn, blurring and unfocused. Bile rises in my throat, blocking any other sound I could make. I can’t stop seeing his face. Those eyes. His voice.

  I love you, Juliana…

  “He’s stable,” Diane says, her fingers stilling against my forehead. “Chief Harrison has personally overseen his case. He will find out who did this.”

  But I know who. My lips freeze, refusing to say it out loud. Almost as if that simple denial can prevent the fact from being final.

  “Can I see him? My father?”

  “Not yet, darling,” Diane says. Her reddened eyes brim with tears even as she forces a smile. “He’s still in the ICU—” She breaks off, staring beyond me, her lips clenched tight. “I’m so scared, honey. I’m so, so scared.”

  “Me too.” I grab her hand, squeezing with reassurance.

  Together, we sit in silence, separated from the chaos of the hall.

  The smell draws me awake. Sharp and crisp. Familiar? My nostrils flare, identifying the traces of a masculine scent—but a different breed from the rich aroma tainting Damien. Cigar smoke. I swear I’ve smelled it before. It’s harsh, evoking images of a stuffy bar or enclosed space. Secretive. The footsteps approaching me are heavier than Mr. Villa’s as well, but in a way that conveys something more potent than mere confidence. It’s arrogance.

  Before I even open my eyes, a face appears in my thoughts and I name the figure out loud. “Chief Harrison.”

  “Morning, Juliana,” he replies, his tone soft—for Diane’s benefit, I realize. She’s snoring, slumped onto the couch beside me. “I hope you don’t mind if I ask you some questions?”

  I stand, smoothing a hand over my wrinkled, stale dress. It’s a gray one of Diane’s, borrowed in place of the ball gown lying crumpled in a corner. “Of course.”

  “This way, then.” He inclines his head.

  I follow him into the hall. It’s quiet, presumably early in the morning. Apart from a few scattered doctors and nurses, the main occupants of the hallway are wearing matching blue uniforms and sporting guns on their hips. His officers.

  “I’m sure you’ve already heard what the doctors believe may be the cause of Heyworth’s decline,” Harrison starts, casting a glance toward my slightly sore arm. “I’m afraid to admit that we don’t currently have any suspects. I have to ask… Do you have any idea where your father could come across something like oleander?”

  A hard swallow contracts my throat as I find myself eyeing a section of wall across from us, cluttered with cheerful signs and reminders of hygiene. One sign in particular catches my interest: a bright-blue one urging any visitor to avoid visiting while experiencing a list of symptoms. Coughing. Sneezing. Fever. Pain.

  The human body is apparently unoriginal in expressing when something is wrong. Right now, my throat is on fire, my lungs burning, my muscles throbbing. I lick my lips, ready to say it out loud, that terrible, horrible thing. It should be easy too. My only suspicion.

  The obvious suspicion.

  “No,” I hear myself rasp. “I don’t think they even grew the shrub at the house.”

  “Interesting.” Harrison cocks his head, his dark eyes unreadable. They trace the contours of my face, settling over my trembling lips. They give me away, betraying all the things I can’t seem to voice. Like the fact that I’m lying. “And you can think of no one with access to something like that? Someone who may want to hurt him?”

  Pain lances through my heart as remnants of an accented voice whisper across my brain. Do you really think I would hurt him, knowing how much he means to you?

  “N-No.” I shake my head. “I’m sorry. I can’t think of anything.”

  Harrison frowns, running his fingers along his jaw. “I’m disappointed, Juliana. If anyone could give insight into your father’s health, I thought it might be you. You two were so close.”

  I flinch. Any other moment, I’d write off the pointed grit in his tone as paranoia. Exhaustion. Emotional distress. Taking a step back, I observe the man again. There’s nothing untoward in his posture. Even his expression conveys concern. Too much concern.

  “Let me give you my card,” he says, reaching into his breast pocket for one. He extends it to me, meeting my gaze directly. “If you can think of anything at all, please don’t hesitate—”

  “If you had a suspect, would it even matter what I thought?” I ask, running my tongue along my dry, cracked lips. “You probably have the evidence—”

  “Witness testimony is key evidence,” Harrison corrects. “Sometimes in cases like this, it’s the eye-witness account that clenches a verdict more than any piece of evidence. In fact, your father knew that better than anyone.”

  “K-Knew?” I echo. “Diane said his condition is stable. He should recover. Unless you’ve heard differently—”

  “Of course.” The man sighs and stares in the opposite direction. His hand captures his jaw as his thumb strokes the stubble growing there. “But in cases like this, who knows how quickly things may change? After all, as long as your father’s attacker is still out there, he could try again.”

  “That’s what your men are here for,” I surmise cautiously. “To prevent that from happening.”

  “Of course.” He nods and inclines his head. “But I will let you in on a secret, one that isn’t very PC. My men are diligent, but they are human, and your father has some powerful enemies. Who knows what methods of deception they are capable of using if killing Heyworth Thorne is the ultimate goal?”

  It feels like too pointed a statement to serve as general advice. Paranoia, I tell myself for the second time.

  “I would hate for his condition to worsen,” Harrison reiterates. “Which is why it is imperative that you tell me of any informa
tion that can help. Anything at all.”

  “I…” Motion catches my eye before I can finish the statement: another officer walking by, slim and pale. Familiar. The man who canvassed my apartment the other day.

  “I have my men on him around the clock,” Harrison explains as the man marches past my father’s room. “Don’t worry. He’s in good hands.”

  “You’ve known him for a while, my father,” I say. “Do you know anything about my case?”

  He strokes his chin with the pad of his thumb. “The Borgetta case?”

  “No.” I shake my head while watching his reaction for any subtle shift. “My case. Leslie Matoda’s case?”

  And in some ways, Heyworth Thorne’s case.

  “My knowledge is a bit rusty on that front,” he admits, shrugging. “I know they never caught the guy. He must have been quite the powerful man to avoid detection for so long. Or perhaps one with very powerful friends.” He laughs, but there is no warmth in it. “I admire your strength to have survived such an ordeal. Even with your scars.”

  His gaze darts to my hip and I subconsciously run my fingers over my thigh, my cheeks heating. Did Daddy mention my old injuries to him?

  “I’m sorry if discussing this upsets you,” he says. “I know it was never closed.”

  “He wasn’t caught,” I admit thickly. “But… Hypothetically speaking, what if there was no real evidence? Just the word of a traumatized little girl. A girl in the crosshairs of a powerful monster.”

  A girl who someone in his department put on Heyworth Thorne’s radar decades ago.

  He sighs. “Some might say nothing would matter without hard evidence.” Despite his blank expression, his tone hardens, a muscle in his jaw twitching. “Others…might suggest that a little girl’s testimony, no matter how fragmented, could have an impact on a jury’s ultimate decision. That, all discussions of her trauma aside, she would have to testify.”

  “And if she couldn’t?”

  “Couldn’t?” A harsh sound escapes his throat. “Pardon my bluntness, Juliana, but what would matter more? The police doing their duty by putting a monster behind bars or one little girl’s psyche?”

  The answer is obvious. Painfully so, even. But one man may have seen it differently.

  He may have felt so protective of one little girl, so involved in her trauma, that the mere hope of putting a monster away might not outweigh the damage of forcing her to stand alone. Forcing her to relive the same night over and over. Forcing her to face that man without true certainty her words would matter.

  Such a man might grow overly protective of said little girl. Not because she was a pawn to use at his disposal, but because he loved her more than anything. Even his cherished version of justice.

  “I’m sorry, Juliana.” Harrison waves something white beneath my nose. A handkerchief. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “You haven’t,” I insist. But I accept the handkerchief regardless, swiping at my eyes with the delicate fabric. “It’s been a stressful few days. That’s all.”

  “I can imagine,” he agrees. “Your father was awake. It would be rude of me to pry, but I can only assume that he didn’t mention anything that may help to track down his attacker?”

  “No,” I say. “He… He just told me to be careful of who I trust. In this world, who can you really?”

  “So cynical,” Harrison scolds. “Your father was always a cautious man. Cautious, pragmatic, but sometimes to his detriment.”

  Something in how he said that phrase resonates in my bones, lingering even as he steps away from me, heading in the direction of his men.

  “I’ll let you rest in peace,” he says. “But I’ll be waiting for a call from you. Oh, and, Juliana?” He pauses, his head tilted expectantly, demanding a reply.

  “Yes?”

  “Heyworth and I may have had our differences, but I’m sure there is one point we both would agree upon: your safety.” Again, he waits, almost as if daring me to question.

  “My safety?”

  “Yes. I’ve taken the liberty of stationing my men near your suite at the Lariat as well as here at the hospital. Any visitors will be logged and searched, and any move you make, even if it’s a quick trip to the bathroom, you will be accompanied by one of my men. I want you to feel protected—”

  “That’s not necessary,” I start to say, but he raises his hand, cutting me off.

  “Oh, I believe it is entirely necessary. After all, you are Heyworth’s most prized possession. I’d like him to know, if and when he recovers, that your life was in my hands. Have a good day, Juliana.”

  “Miss?” Another officer appears by my side. “Chief Harrison requests that you stay close by. We’ll be positioned just outside if you need anything. Just ask.”

  “Thank you,” I say, forcing a smile. The moment I slip inside the sitting room, my shoulders slump. Ice sinks into my spine, solidifying it as an uneasy dread builds in my belly. Paranoia, I tell myself over and over. Reckless paranoia.

  Or perhaps, amid all his lies, Damien Villa uttered one semblance of the truth: Trust your emotions.

  It’s nearly the evening when another officer pokes his head through the doorway of the sitting room. “Good evening, ma’am. Can I get you anything?”

  The question sounds harmless enough on its face. If only the man weren’t wearing a uniform obviously a size too big. A Spanish accent colors his words as well—not particularly unusual for the city PD—but his eyes convey anything but the stern professionalism of Harrison’s men. They shift, darting pointedly to the doorway.

  “Is everything all right?” Diane murmurs sleepily, stirring beside me.

  “Yes. Go back to sleep.” I reassuringly run my finger along her back before standing, creeping toward the doorway for reasons I can’t explain. Has life with Damien Villa corrupted me so thoroughly that I see deception and subterfuge no matter where I go? I’m almost convinced, until the officer leans in the moment I draw close enough.

  “Vending machines are that way,” he tells me, nodding down the length of the hall. This time of night, fewer officers linger, positioned at random intervals—but their mere presence reinforces Harrison’s subtle boast. My “safety” is in his hands.

  “Ms. Thorne?” The officer indicates in his chosen direction more strongly, gesturing with a wave.

  I follow warily. When I reach the curve in the corridor, I don’t find a vending machine. Just a hand reaching from nowhere to clench my arm and drag me into a vacant room.

  “Easy,” someone murmurs near my ear, their accent familiar. “Mr. Villa sent me. I’m a neutral party, merely here to see if you are all right.”

  “Neutral?” I whisper, turning to face the hulking figure behind me.

  Julio. He’s wearing his typical dark, nondescript suit and standing near the doorway of this empty hospital room.

  Seeing him brings it all back like a punch to the gut.

  “Do you know what he did to me?” Tears burn my eyes, forcing me to blink to keep them at bay. “No?” I ask as his jaw clenches without him offering up an answer. “For four years, he watched someone pretend to be my worst nightmare. Why?” I laugh when he remains silent. “Because this was always just a game to him. I was always a pawn.”

  “Sí,” Julio says, but there’s a flatness to his tone, neither confirming nor denying my statement. “But, though he sent me, I am not here for Mr. Villa. I’m here for you.”

  I bite my lip, unsure of whether or not to believe him. He could be lying, participating in another elaborate scheme.

  But it’s not like I have any other options.

  “Chief Harrison has put an unofficial security detail on me,” I blurt.

  “Sí.” He scowls, cutting his gaze to the doorway. “The bastards are especially…vigilant. Just getting to you was challenging.”

  “I don’t trust him,” I admit. “But I don’t trust you, either. I can’t trust anyone.” I rip my hands through my hair, squeezing my eyes shut against t
he hopelessness building in my chest. “I can’t—”

  “I know,” Julio says, his voice eerily level. “But I will confess that, while Mr. Villa sent me here, I came on my own. I wouldn’t have otherwise,” he adds. “But know that, for now, I am yours to command. Just say the word.”

  I frown. It’s too tempting to consider. A trap?

  Or a reprieve?

  I only have a split second to decide. So I close my eyes and whisper, “Get me out of here.”

  “As you wish.” His hand brushes mine, tugging me forward. I open my eyes as he drapes his coat over my shoulders and pulls the hood over my head. “Stay close.”

  Julio could be lying to me—but there is no mistaking his skill. When we exit the hospital minutes later without arousing suspicion, I have a clear idea of why Damien keeps him so close.

  “How do I know you aren’t planning to hand-deliver me to him?” I ask as the man ushers me into the back seat of a black car. But it’s different from the model I’m used to. Key differences stick out: the tinted windows and smaller blueprint. Not one of Damien’s.

  “I could be,” Julio says as he climbs into the driver’s seat. “But I think you and I both know that Mr. Villa is a bit more…direct than this method.”

  He has a point.

  “Chief Harrison says my father was poisoned by oleander,” I say. “Do you think D-Damien… Could he have done it?”

  “Never,” Julio says without a shred of hesitation. “If Mr. Villa were to kill someone, there would be no question that he was the culprit. None. If anything, he would have to call me in to clean up the mess.”

  I have to consciously keep my mouth from dropping open. “You make it seem like he’s done as much before.”

  He doesn’t answer, staring resolutely through the windshield instead. His silence conveys more than any words could, however. A quiet reinforcement of his earlier warning: The other Mr. Villa. He is a man you have not met, and you do not want to.

  “Where are you taking me?” I ask.

  “Someplace safe. Neither Chief Harrison nor Mr. Villa will be able to find you, unless you desire to be found.”