Page 11 of When She Unravels
I stay back until the very last group and move through the boarding procedure in a daze. My body is firmly stuck in fight-or-flight mode, but I’m forced to wait in one line and then the next. I’m jittery and sweaty. If anyone asks, I’ll tell them I have flight anxiety.
When I get on the plane, I see Converse girl in one of the far rows in economy. She’s got a hat pulled low over her face, and she’s not even trying to look at anyone. Good. I slide into my window seat in row five and turn my face to the window. I’ll be off the plane before her, so as long as I stay in the business section during the flight, there’s no chance she’ll see me.
When the door to the plane shuts and we start to move, a moan of relief moves past my lips. With it go the remnants of my energy. I thought I’d be on pins and needles the entire flight, but my body shuts down, and I plunge into sleep.
CHAPTER4
VALENTINA
Turbulence wakesme some time later. Outside my window, the sky is painted with magenta and orange strokes, and fluffy white clouds stretch below us, as far as the eye can see. The screen on the back of the seat in front of me says we’re forty minutes from landing in Barcelona.
I didn’t dream, but now that I’m back in the land of the living, images explode inside my head. Converse girl curled in a fetal position on the hard basement floor. My palm squeezed around the cold gun. Lazaro collapsed on the ground, thick blood seeping from beneath him.
Maybe I did manage to kill him.
This thought calms me. The calm reaches inside of me and takes up residence inside my body for the first time in months.
Each morning I woke up beside Lazaro marked the beginning of another endless day. I’d eat my breakfast, choke on my lunch, and have a panic attack or two in the hours leading up to Lazaro’s return.
I never knew if he’d bring someone with him that day or not. He didn’t operate on a regular schedule, because the business of the clan doesn’t have one either. It’s all chaos, governed by blood and white powder, and just when you think you’ve learned the rules, they change.
There were ten of them. An average of one per week since the day after our wedding. I don’t know most of their names, but I’ll remember their faces forever.
I stretch my cold, aching feet and rub my palms along my arms to get some blood flowing to my extremities. I resist the urge to get up to use the bathroom and peek at Converse girl. She’s fine. She said she can get picked up from the airport, which means she must have friends or family in Spain. Was her accent Spanish or Italian? Now that I think about it, it might have been either. If she knows I’m on her plane, she’ll only get freaked out.
The light flicks on, and the captain announces we’re about to begin our descent. As the plane fills with sounds of seatbelts being fastened and sleepy conversations, the clouds part to reveal land and the unmistakable glitter of the sea.
When I step off the plane onto the jet bridge, I’m hit with an oppressive wave of heat. The signs are written in English and Spanish, and I follow them to customs. I just want to get out of the restricted zone so that I can figure out my next move.
I’ve been to Spain once for a wedding in Seville. Carolyn, someone I knew from high school. The only reason Papà allowed me to go was because her father was a senator. It was four days of drinking, eating tapas, and lounging in beautiful palaces built for old kings.
My brother, Vince, was my chaperone, but he didn’t stick around much after another female guest caught his eye. I wasn’t about to do anything stupid, anyway, not when I was already engaged to Lazaro. I was nervous about marrying him, but it’s not like I could have said no to Papà when he told me Lazaro was to be my husband. As soon as the words had left his mouth, it was assumed to be a done deal. Any hint of disagreement would have been met with harsh discipline.
The customs agent stamps my passport and hands it back to me. “Welcome to Spain,” he says and waves me through.
The Barcelona airport is huge and sprawling. I exchange my dollars to euros, get myself a pastry and an espresso, and sit down at a small table in the cafe.
I need to keep moving so that I’m harder to track down, but where should I go? I don’t have a phone anymore, so I can’t even research anything online.
There are two giant screens above me that rotate through what appears to be an endless list of flights. I scan them over as I chew, and just as I manage to get through the entire list once, a group of young British men sit down at the table beside me.
“I can’t wait to see Solomun,” one of them says excitedly. “He’ll be playing tomorrow night at Revolvr, and everyone says it’s the wildest party.”
His friend nudges his shoulder. “Did you forget? We already promised Addie we’d see her at Amnesia. She’s working there for the summer as a server.”
This elicits a chorus of hoots from his companions. “Are you still trying to get with that chick?” one of them exclaims. “Forget it, mate. She’s in fucking Ibiza, she’s not thinking about you.”
I take a sip of my espresso and glance back to the board.
There’s a flight to Ibiza in an hour and a half.
The only thing I know about Ibiza is what everyone else does. It’s an island known for hardcore partying. Like the European version of Vegas, I suppose. A place where people constantly come and go. A place it might be easy for a girl to get lost in…
I drum my fingertips against the edge of the table. What have I got to lose? It’s not like I have any better ideas for where to go.
Twenty minutes later, I’m at the gate.
The rest of my journey is a blur. After I disembark the plane in Ibiza, my mind registers a series of snapshots—the row of taxis at the terminal, the billboards advertising DJs along the road, the palm trees that line the sidewalks.
