Page 77 of When She Unravels
“No.” As soon as I say the word to her, I know it’s true. Unlike her brother, Martina is innocent, and I don’t want to pull her into our drama. She’s gone through enough already.
I squeeze the clothes closer into my chest. “Do you mind if I change?”
“Go ahead,” she says, starting toward the door.
“You don’t need to leave. I’ll just pop into the bathroom quickly. Then you can tell me who baked that heavenly croissant.”
Her face melts into a grin. “You liked it?”
“It’s the best I’ve ever had.”
Her bashful laugh follows me into the bathroom where I quickly swap my towel for a pair of underwear and a loose jersey dress that reaches my mid thigh. No bra. Martina is petite, so she probably didn’t have anything that would fit me in that department.
When I emerge, she’s sitting on the edge of the bed, nibbling on a piece of cheese.
“You remind me of one of my sisters,” I tell her.
“Sisters?”
“I have two. They’re younger than me, and I miss them. A lot.”
“Which one do I remind you of?”
“My younger sister, Cleo. Something about the upper part of your face, like the eyes and the nose. It’s hard to describe, but they’re similar.” I sit down on the opposite corner of the bed and reach for the last bit of that croissant. “She also really loves cheese.”
Martina laughs. “Who doesn’t love cheese?”
“People who can’t taste, clearly. When Cleo and I still lived together, she’d always put together these elaborate cheese boards with all kinds of nuts and jams. Her, my other sister, and I would bring it out to the terrace, sneak a bottle of wine out of my parents’ cellar, and watch the sun set over New York.” We stopped doing that after I got married. My sisters would invite me, but I made up excuses not to go so that I wouldn’t have to spend hours lying to their faces about how my marriage was going.
“I hope you see them again soon.” Martina’s voice is soft. “I’m sure Dem won’t keep you here forever.”
Even if he lets me go, chances are I won’t see my sisters, but there’s no point in telling her that. “Who knows what’s going on inside your brother’s head.”
She grows rigid. I can tell she feels uncomfortable talking about her brother’s plans for me. She’s probably worried she’ll betray his confidence by saying something wrong.
I give her a reassuring smile. “So I gather you like to cook.”
She seems momentarily relieved at the change of topic, then her face falls again. “I used to.” She traces the embroidered pattern on the comforter with her finger. “I don’t do it as much anymore, even though Dem asks me all the time.”
“He didn’t ask you to bake for me, did he?”
Blood rushes to her cheeks. “No. I just wanted to make something nice for you. I used to cook most of mine and my brother’s meals. Now, we’ve hired someone.”
“Why’s that?”
Suddenly, she stills her tracing and flattens her hand on the bedspread. “After New York, I lost interest in it.”
I see it then in her eyes. A hollowness filled with lingering pain. I’d bet my life it didn’t exist until she met Lazaro, and no matter how much I want to look away, I don’t allow myself to. This is what my husband does to people if he doesn’t end up killing them. He destroys them from within.
Just like he did to me.
Martina doesn’t deserve this. She’s just a young girl caught up in the cruel games of her brother’s world, and she must move past what happened to her.
I want to help her move on. Ioweit to her.
The security guard is watching us through the crack in the door, so I don’t take her hand, but I move my fingers closer to where hers rest. She notes the movement and gives me a questioning look.
“Martina, it will get better,” I tell her in a low voice. “Give it time. You must be patient with yourself, but you can’t stop fighting.”
