A Taste like Sin Page 16

  It sounds too good to be true. A mythical concept so beyond my current circumstances. I’m skeptical when Julio navigates us through a district in the heart of the city, finally stopping in front of a nondescript brownstone townhouse.

  “If you make a list of your things, I can procure them for you,” he explains while exiting the car and circling to my end. As he opens the door, he adds, “In the meantime, make yourself comfortable.”

  A suggestion made all too easy by the home’s simple-but-clean layout. It’s a step back from the luxury of Damien’s suite, but a welcome change all things considered. The small living room contains just a modest array of brown leather furniture centered around a TV.

  “I wonder if it’s made the news?” I find myself blurting.

  Julio quickly grabs a remote from an end table and flips the television on.

  Sure enough, the blazing headline sports a grim update as to my father’s status, but the main footage features a vaguely familiar man standing in front of a podium instead of a shot of the hospital. It must have been filmed hours earlier, because the sun is shining behind him, casting an aura of authority my father could have only dreamed of staging for himself.

  Leaning toward the screen, I struggle to catch the words of his speech.

  “…honored to have the family’s blessing to continue on in my campaign,” he says, his lips contorted in a charming grin. “I hope to make Heyworth and the rest of the Thornes proud. I do not accept this lightly.”

  “Our blessing?” As I speak, my thoughts clear and I’m finally able to put a name to the face. Kyle Harrison.

  “The chief’s son,” Julio says with a familiarity that makes me suspect he’s delved into the man’s background more than I can imagine. “Political aspirations have shaped that boy since his days in prep school. Judging from your expression, I doubt your family has thrown their weight behind his endorsement, however.”

  “No,” I croak. “I never gave him an answer.”

  “It seems they took that as confirmation,” he says as the news coverage cuts back to the anchors seated in a newsroom. “Should I look into it?”

  “Yes,” I say without thinking through the consequences—such as potentially involving Damien even further into my life. “Something feels…wrong.”

  “Sí.” He nods. “I’m on it.”

  He heads for the door, but I follow him.

  “One other thing?”

  “¿Sí?”

  “Damien… Did he ever look into my case, truly? Or was it all just a lie?” My brain jumps to a terrifying conclusion before I can help it. “What if he knew Simon’s true identity all along? Birds of a feather…”

  “I admit that I am not sure,” Julio says. “If he was involved, he did not utilize my skills.”

  “And if I wanted to confront him?” I ask, jutting my chin into the air. “Would you take me there?”

  He frowns, seeming to mull it over. “Considering that I have pledged to be of use to you, it seems I wouldn’t be able to refuse.”

  “Good.” I start forward to the door. Paces away, I turn and sit on the couch instead. “Then keep him away from me. And keep me away from him.”

  Damien promised me that all of his resources would be at my disposal to aid in hunting down Simon’s true identity. Now? I have only my phone, a paper towel serving as a makeshift notepad, and a pen sporting the logo of a hotel I found on the coffee table.

  My scribbled notes are scattered—just pieces of information I subconsciously know I have no hope of piecing together on my own. Still, I force myself to put them into perspective.

  Simon has been dead for four years according to my father.

  Damien claimed he wasn’t behind the continued presents, but someone else—someone powerful enough to hire skilled men every time to break into my apartment.

  Men who scoured through my personal belongings and crept through my personal spaces. For years, leaving behind the ominous stench of cologne that I’d always linked to Simon…

  And all along, Damien had watched.

  “Don’t get sidetracked,” I scold myself. Drawing my knees up to my chin, I huddle against the back of the couch and continue to read, straining my eyes through the low light. The house is small, but I got some sleep in a small bedroom upstairs. When I awoke, I discovered an oversized shirt and pair of jeans Julio must have left for me, my makeshift detective uniform.

  After tapping the pen on the paper, I start off with the easiest facts to comprehend: Chief Harrison claimed my father had been poisoned with oleander.

  But Harrison’s son is publicly claiming my father’s endorsement.

  Harrison also had access to my apartment.

  But Harrison was also an acquaintance of my father’s. I’m not sure if they were particularly close, but close enough that the man was a vague, though regular fixture at my father’s events throughout the years. Could… Could he have been the one all those years ago to scribble my name onto a piece of paper that is now resting in Heyworth’s security deposit box?

  My temples throb, protesting the conflicting bits of information.

  Then there’s the matter of Lynn McKelvy. Her presents stopped when the real Simon died.

  My tormentor didn’t choose to continue haunting her. But why?

  I’m making myself dizzy, pouring over the possibilities until my eyes burn—but reading is the only distraction I have from the low, rumbling noise gnawing at the edge of my awareness.

  It’s darker now. A blueish glow taints the room despite it being early in the afternoon. As I look up, a flash of white illuminates everything for a split second. And I freeze—the perfect victim for the thunder barreling through the quiet a heartbeat later.

  I jump up, slamming my hands over my ears. But it’s no use. I hear him anyway, no less real than he was twenty years ago.

  Come out, come out, Juliana.

  I see him: a shadow, lunging from the corners of the room, chasing me. Hunting me. I scream and turn to run. Escape. Clumsy limps hinder me. I’m not quick enough to avoid the edge of the end table. The glass catches my calf, sending me sideways, and I land hard, biting my tongue. A booming crash doesn’t belong in my forest memories—neither does the icy pain dripping through my veins, concentrated over my right arm. But I can’t move.

  I can’t breathe.

  I just wait for the inevitable.

  And, like clockwork, he comes for me.

  “Juliana!” Grasping fingers clench my wrist, trying to pull me upright. “Ms. Thorne? Mierda! You’re bleeding…” I know that voice. I think. That person…

  No. He’s not really here.

  I’m not here.

  I’m there.

  I’m there.

  Alone. I’m always alone…

  “Shhh.” A man’s voice drips into my ear as if to directly challenge the thought—but it’s not Simon’s. Not Julio’s, either. “Easy, dulce niña. I’ve got you.”

  He pulls me upright—lifting me from the floor, I realize. As I blink, the forest disappears, and I’m back in Julio’s safe house. Rain lashes at the windows, goaded by another roar of thunder so strong it rattles the walls.

  I flinch, fighting to cover my ears or my eyes—anything. But someone stronger pins me tight, smoothing their hands through my hair.

  “I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “I’m going to put you down.” Somehow, he manages to navigate to the couch and pivots to lower me onto it. “Mierda! I need to assess your arm. I think you’re still bleeding, sweet girl.”

  Still? My eyes fixate over a swath of glittering objects scattered over the floor. They gleam, illuminated by another flash of lightning: jagged pieces of glass. Part of the coffee table is shattered. By me. Numb, I look down at my arm, unsurprised by the dark-red substance coating my skin from forearm to fingertip.

  “It feels deep,” Damien hisses, probing the edge of the wound with his finger. “We need to apply pressure. Here.” He sheds his tailored coat and uses touch to wad the slee
ve of it against the worst of the bleeding.

  “Don’t,” I croak as he cinches my forearm in a single fist. “Let go of me. Don’t touch me!”

  “¡Detener! I’m not leaving you alone like this.”

  I’ve never heard his tone so deep. Iron.

  “You’re in shock,” he adds a fraction softer. The fingers of his opposite hand find the inside of my wrist, pressing along the tendon. “Your pulse is weak. You feel so damn cold—”

  “Like you care.” I want to shrug him off, but I’m too tired. I lean back against the cushions of the couch, my eyelids fluttering. “You’re a liar. So is Julio—”

  “He cares for you more than you realize,” Damien growls, sounding gruffer once more. His grip tightens and I hiss, feeling the faintest tendrils of pain. “I had to beg him to tell me where you were. Me. Beg.” He scoffs at the absurdity, and through my blurred vision, I see his mouth twist into a frown. “I was worried about you.”

  “Leave me alone.” My eyes drift shut again, blocking out his face. But not the pain. It’s centered in my chest rather than my arm, however. Pulsing. Pinching. Burning. “I’ll call the police—”

  “You’re too weak to move,” Damien snarls. He pulls me in closer as if to prove it.

  I can’t fight him off. His heat is a vise, encasing me from all sides, squeezing out the numbing chill. This close to him, I feel everything. His hammering heartbeat radiating through his chest. His rapid breaths betraying how quickly he raced to me. His fear, pungent in the scent of his sweat.

  My thoughts splinter, becoming too sharp. Too much.

  “Let me go—”

  “I never beg,” he says into my ear, returning to that confession. “Never. I never pace my fucking suite in a frenzy. ¡Maldito sea! I’ve never torn through the city like a madman looking for a woman who hides from me. I’ve never threatened to kill Julio with my bare fucking hands if he didn’t reveal where she was. I wouldn’t harm him,” he says, almost as if to reassure himself of that fact. “But I still said it. Maybe in that moment, both of us believed it.” His grip tightens even as he maintains the pressure on my injured arm. His breath scalds the side of my throat, his voice a low, insistent hum I can’t ignore even if I wanted to. “I threatened him, dulce niña. All I could think about was you in this storm. A part of me hoped I’d find you standing here with a knife, ready to ward me off with violence. Unaffected. I would have left if I found you so.”

  Not panicked. And terrified. And weak.

  “But you are only human,” he tells me, his voice hoarse. “Human, and strong, and few could survive what you have. I forget that sometimes… The strength it takes. A weaker person—a weaker man—might turn off all emotion after such a betrayal. He might become bitter, and cold, and able to order murder in the same breath as he might order a meal. But you…” His lips nudge my skin, keeping me tethered despite another slamming roll of thunder. “You still love Heyworth Thorne, even after all he’s done to you. You’re strong enough to hold a vigil over his sickbed and defend him in public. You still fight to see the good. You believe in him, even as he hurt you.”

  “You hurt me,” I rasp into his shoulder, too exhausted to pull away. “My father…he loves me. You don’t—”

  “Do you know when I realized, sweet girl? That I was a fool?” His voice relentlessly overpowers mine until I finally trail off. “It was when I found you in the woods. Even in your voice, I could hear it. Shock that I came for you. Gratitude. In that moment, all you wanted was someone. Me. You wanted me there. Not because of money or the many things you could extort. You were alone and you needed me. Sí, sweet girl. Such an innocent little request, and it shattered me to my goddamn core.”

  He nuzzles my shoulder, hesitating as I stiffen.

  “I was wrong,” he continues. “I was a bastard. Selfish. I don’t deserve to be near you, let alone touch you like this.” He slides his hand up and down my lower back anyway, gripping his fingers against the shape of me. “So you can feel no guilt or shame for using me. I’m here. Use me as your barrier against the storm. I can suffer that for you. When it’s over, you will hate me again. You hate me still. I know… But I will stay anyway. I will comfort you anyway. I’ll shoulder the burden so that you can protect your heart, sweet girl. Mine is already forfeit…”

  I stiffen and peel my eyes open to an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar room. The simplistic color scheme recalls the memory of Julio’s safe house. Sure enough, the view from the nearest window looks out on the same view of the residential area of the city. Safe. Quiet.

  Far from the realm of my father or Damien—at least in theory.

  I may be alone now, but another person left clues of their presence scattered around me, impossible to ignore. Like the blankets drawn carefully over me. As I kick them aside, I’m faced with the fact that someone removed my socks and shirt, making it easier for them—or a doctor—to access my right forearm. A crisp white bandage covers stitches, I assume. Vague images of watching someone maneuver a needle through my rent flesh reinforces that suspicion.

  Someone also left a cup of coffee on the nightstand, now cold, as well as my abandoned cell phone—which could serve as a tracking device should they decide to utilize it. I grab it, intending to smash it, only to read the smattering of text messages flashing across the screen.

  Diane: Stable condition. Doctors expect full recovery.

  Sighing, I fall back against a mound of pillows. I should be relieved, full of naïve hopes of reconciliation and my father’s health restored.

  But I’m not.

  Damien’s words are in my head. You love him. You forgive. Your strength.

  Love. All this time, I considered Simon’s motives as hate. Hate for me. Sadistic glee at watching me suffer. A joy at causing pain—and maybe those emotions had driven his initial attack.

  But his replacement? What would drive a man to torment a woman for years? In a way, Damien has never shied away from his reasoning: the love that he claimed kept me from becoming someone like him. Love for his brother that drove him to despise my father. Love that became pain.

  And maybe the true imposter-Simon had the same motivations guiding him? Love for someone, the way my father loves me.

  The theory haunts me as I climb off the mattress only to find a pair of clothing folded neatly at the foot of the bed. Reluctantly, I change into the clean sweater and pants, and then I find a bathroom down the hall to wash up in.

  I look awful. A haunted shadow of the beautiful Juliana Thorne I spent years striving to be. Anything to make Heyworth Thorne proud. Anything to prove that I was worth living the life that should have been Leslie’s.

  Anything to hide from the trauma no one else could see.

  My phone is in my grip, I realize as I return to the hall. Damien could be using it already, listening in on my indecision. Tracking my every move.

  I bring the device to my ear, but it doesn’t ring. I have to dial the number myself and wait for an answer from the other end.

  “Juliana…” Damien sounds wary this morning. A raw note of exhaustion betrays his lack of sleep.

  How long did he linger after having his private doctor stitch me up? How long did he lie in bed beside me to the point where I could still smell him when I woke up? How long has he kept his own phone close, hoping I’d call? Knowing I would?

  “I can have the police there in minutes if you would like to report my actions as assault.”

  There’s no mocking humor tainting his accent. I can’t tell if he’s serious or taunting. Maybe that’s the point. Dealing with him is a game, pushing my heart to its limits. Knowing at any second he might caress it with the tip of a paintbrush or stab a blade through it.

  “I think I know who’s behind the attacks,” I admit. “I think he’s going to try killing my father again. Then…I think he’s going to kill me.”

  “¿Sí?” A fierceness makes him sound more intimidating than ever.

  “It could be you,” I admit. “The
one killing everyone involved in your brother’s case. The real culprit behind the attack on me. You really were behind the Simon imposter. This is all your game…”

  “Sí,” he admits. “It could be me. I won’t insult your intelligence by proclaiming my innocence. You have no reason to believe me.”

  But he’s wrong. And that’s the terrifying part.

  “It could be Mateo,” I add. “He’s angry. No one would believe he wasn’t capable.”

  “Sí,” Damien admits. “Even I, at times, am not sure of what he’s capable of.”

  “But I don’t think he is. He’s too angry. Too driven by rage. He would be sloppy.”

  But this killer is clean. Precise. His goal isn’t to sow pain and fear—it’s more calculated than that. In his view, maybe even pure.

  “I think you can help me draw the real killer out into the open,” I say cautiously. “But you’d risk exposing yourself and sending your empire crashing down around you. You’d have to risk lowering your precious mask and letting the world see the monster underneath. And you’d have to do so knowing that, even then, I still can’t forgive you.”

  His silence ratchets the tension building in my chest, squeezing every ounce of blood from my heart. I’m dizzy, swaying in time with my surging pulse.

  “Could you?” I croak, finally demanding an answer.

  “Tell me what you need,” he says. “Tell me. And I will do it.”

  After I hang up with Damien and venture downstairs, I find Julio waiting for me in the living room. He stands near the now missing coffee table, sweeping what seems to be small shards of glass into a dustpan. As I approach, he sets his broom aside and faces me, swiping his hands over the front of his professional suit.

  “Morning, Ms. Thorne.”

  “Thank you,” I say, forcing the words past my thickened throat. “I’m sorry if I caused any trouble between you and your employer.”

  “No hay problema.” He waves me off and returns to his broom. “I’ll clean up this mess and I have Mr. Villa’s permission to move you to another location. One that he does not know of and will never discover without your permission.”