Page 99 of South of Justice

“You look…feral,” he said. “I was worried the American had domesticated you.”

Lucía stared at him. “Where’s the boy?”

Javier cocked his head. “No pleasantries? I’m a little hurt.” He crossed to a metal table against the wall and placed the laptop down carefully. Then picked up a blowtorch, inspecting it like he wasn’t sure what its function was. The slight smile playing on his face said otherwise. “But maybe not as much as you’re about to be.”

Lucía’s stomach felt like it had dropped out of her body. She gripped the armrests of the chair. “Where is he?”

He continued to ignore the question. “You’re angry,” he said. “That’s good. It means you haven’t given up yet.”

Lucía’s jaw flexed.

“I always admired that about you. You weren’t like the others. Pretty, yes. But you didn’t lead with it. You were smart. Hardworking. You wanted things.”

“I wanted to matter,” she said coldly. “I mistook you for someone who could give me that.”

Finally, Javier smiled. “And I did, didn’t I?”

“You gave me a cell with better furniture.”

He placed the blowtorch down with exaggerated care, then stepped closer to her. “You remember how I work, don’t you?”he asked, voice low. “You remember the nights you came to my office. How you used to look at me?”

She felt the air shrink.

“I remember,” she said. “I remember trying to please you. Trying to survive.”

He smiled. “You did more than survive.”

She shook her head slowly. “I was young. I was hungry. And you knew exactly what to do with girls like me.”

“Mmmm,” he said, like he was remembering exactly that. “I did, didn’t I?”

Lucía’s cheeks flamed. Before she had a chance to respond, his hand whipped out, as quick as a snake, to grip her jaw. He squeezed hard. His black eyes looked bottomless, empty. How had she ever thought he was handsome? He was grotesque.

“Do you know what’s beautiful about our history?” he said. “It’s unfinished. This ledger, this vendetta, it’s just a footnote. You and I? We’re the real story.” He leaned down until their faces were inches apart. “I’m offering you a way out,” he said. “One last time. Give me the passphrase. The key.”

It was hard to speak with his hand on her jaw. “And if I refuse?”

He let go, and stood, smoothed his hands down his suit. “I really hope you don’t. You always had such beautiful skin.”

Lucía swallowed. Her wrists burned. Her shoulder ached. Her whole body ached.

But what hurt the most wasn’t from her bindings, or her wounds, or even from the fear of what he was about to do to her.

It was from recognition. From realizing that this was who he’d always been. This was who she had once bent herself around, like ivy curling around a poisoned tree. “You think I’ll trade what’s in my head for your mercy.”

“I do,” he said, in that low, certain way of his. As if to provide evidence of his certainty, he turned back to the table and pickedup the blowtorch again. He clicked the igniter, and the bright blue flame flared to life.

He came back around to face her, squatting down so he was level with her. He didn’t say anything, just looked up at her with an almost adoring expression, like he was trying to memorize her face. It was an expression a man might give the woman he loved, if this were a romance and not a horror story.

He lifted the blowtorch, but he didn’t direct it to her skin. Instead, he aimed the flame at the metal frame of the chair near her thigh.

Lucía felt a tremble start in her legs and travel up her body. She could control her mind, she could lean into the fear, but her bones and tissue and sinews wanted no part of what was about to happen.

The metal began to warm beneath her. The hiss of the torch grew louder. The air shimmered with heat. Then the heat crept upward, slow at first, until her skin began to prickle, then throb. Then the metal began to tick, soft, irregular pings as it expanded under the flame.

The sound got inside her head.

Ping. Ping. Ping.