Bound by Lies Read online

  I take a moment and sip on my water as I think about the life I never had with him. “From the ages of about five to twelve, I used to wait by the mailbox on my birthday, thinking that maybe this would be the year you’d send me a card. I would be so excited as the day came every year, and it was when I was thirteen that I remember thinking to myself, I bet he doesn’t even know when my birthday is. For thirteen years, I held out hope that you’d finally recognize me as your daughter. Thirteen years. Do you realize how long that is?” My voice is full of emotion, but I keep it under control.

  His eyes are full of tears as he listens to me, and his hands are folded together on the table.

  “I have a question, and I hope you’ll answer me honestly. Will you?”

  He nods.

  “Do you? Know when my birthday is?”

  His eyes are fixed tightly on mine as he chews his bottom lip. Finally, he drops his head and shakes it. I blow a puff of air through my nose loudly, my heart sinking, but I bury the pain like I’m so accustomed to doing.

  “I used to make up stories about you.” I chuckle. “I’d tell the kids at school that you worked for the FBI and that you were on a secret mission, and that’s why you couldn’t be at school for the events that the other dads were there for… the concerts, the plays, the school conferences.” I look at him as he brushes away a stray tear from the corner of his eye and swallows hard. “I finally stopped lying for you when I realized you didn’t love me enough to even send a letter or a card for my birthday.” My voice breaks. “As messed up as Mom was, buried in her depression, she always loved me. She’d make a birthday card out of scrap paper at home, but she acknowledged me.”

  “I’m sorry, Emilia,” he speaks just above a whisper. “I’m so sorry. I did love you. I should’ve been there. I should’ve reached out to you. I do love you,” he corrects himself.

  I should be angry. I should cry—but I have no more tears left. My heart hurts as I listen to him apologize. It hurts for him—but mostly it hurts for everything I missed out on. “I accept your apology,” I say, a lump forming in my throat, “but I don’t believe you love me. Love doesn’t abandon.” I’ve always been told that I forgive too easily, but if life has taught me anything, it’s that it’s too short. I need to forgive and move forward, let go of the past and my anger. For myself and for my baby.

  We sit there for a long time, my father’s eyes glistening with unshed tears. It’s really remarkable how much I look like him. I have his long fingers, his dark hair, and his straight nose. Our eyes match perfectly, and I notice that his lip curls slightly at the corner, just like mine.

  “Thank you for making dinner. It was really good.” I offer him a stiff smile and set my napkin on the table. “I’ll clean up.”

  “Nah, I’ve got it. Go relax. Gretchen said there were some pajamas in the shopping bag. Go get changed. I’ll clean up.” He smiles shakily at me and begins gathering the plates and silverware.

  Making my way back to the guest room, I pause in the hallway to look at the pictures on the wall again. This time I smile. Not from jealousy, but from a place of acceptance.

  IT’S AMAZING WHAT a hot shower and clean clothes can do for a person. I carefully remove the tag from the oversized satin nightshirt and matching pajama shorts and slip into them. I sigh when the smooth fabric glides across my skin. Brushing the tangles from my wet hair, I let it hang loose while it air dries, then open the new toothbrush and brush my teeth. For the first time in days, I begin to relax.

  Right before I’m about to crawl into bed, I’m startled by the doorbell, and I snap my head to look at the clock on the nightstand. It’s after ten in the evening, and I panic when I think about who’s here. I crack the bedroom door open and hear numerous voices down the hallway. Slowly tiptoeing down the hall, I’m able to see Agent Hoffman along with another man talking to my father.

  Catching me out of the corner of his eye, he turns quickly and addresses me. “Emilia,” he looks at me uncomfortably. I wrap my arms around my stomach and try to hide the fact that I’m in my pajamas. “We have an update on Sam. He’s in extremely critical condition. The doctors still aren’t sure if he’ll pull through, but they’re cautiously optimistic.”

  I catch my breath and exhale at this news. “I’d like to see him.”

  “I’m sorry.” He shakes his head sadly. “Right now, they’re not allowing any visitors other than family.”

  “I’m his family,” I argue. Everyone looks at me like I’m crazy. “Alex is his brother, and I’m pregnant with his niece or nephew. I’m family. He’s all the family I have left.”

  My father outwardly cringes when I say that. I didn’t mean to hurt him, but it’s true. He’s the one that chose to leave. Maybe he regrets that, but he and I have a long path to real healing, if both of us allow for that.

  Ignoring my father, I plead with Hoffman, “Please let me see him.”

  Hoffman sighs and looks to the agent standing next to him.

  “It’s not up to me. We can bring you to the hospital tomorrow and see if they’ll let you in, but don’t hold your breath.”

  “Okay.” I nod, gulping back tears. “Thank you.”

  “We’ll bring her by in the morning,” my father says to Hoffman. They shake hands, then he escorts them to the door. After locking the door, he turns, startled to see me still standing there.

  I want to explain. Even if he chose to abandon me, I don’t like hurting him. “I didn’t mean—”

  “I understand, Emilia. You don’t need to apologize. I was absent your entire life. I hardly expect for you to acknowledge me as family now. I have to accept what I did and how that has affected you.”

  “I just meant that he’s all I have left of Alex.” I hate saying that out loud. “They’re two different people, but yet they’re so much alike. When Alex died, Sam vowed to make sure I’d be okay… That my baby would be okay—”

  “Emilia. You don’t have to explain. I understand.” He smiles sincerely at me, reaching out and rubbing my upper arm in a slightly awkward show of fatherly affection. “Unless you’re headed to bed, you’re welcome to join me in the living room. I was just going to watch some TV.”

  “Okay.” I give him a small smile.

  He settles into the large, velour couch and turns on the news. I sit on the matching loveseat while he scrolls through the channels, but at nearly eleven at night, there’s nothing on but news and infomercials. He scrolls through the channels and sighs.

  “Want some ice cream?” he asks, turning off the TV and tossing the remote control onto the large ottoman in front of the couch. “I’ve got strawberry or chocolate.”

  “Strawberry, please,” I answer him and a smile spreads across face.

  “Coming right up,” he says, jumping up from the couch.

  I pull a throw over myself from the back of the couch and stretch out. Oddly, I feel comfortable here. A minute later, my dad rounds the corner with two bowls. He hands me a large bowl with three generous scoops. My eyes bulge, and he laughs at me.

  “Oh, eat it.” He laughs. “You could use a little fat on those bones.”

  I shake my head and disregard his comment. I’ve been thin, ridiculously thin my entire life—but he wouldn’t know that.

  “So, Emilia,” he says, licking his spoon. “How did you get involved with Alex Estrada?” He casts a sideways glance at me before dipping his spoon back in his ice cream bowl.

  I push my ice cream around the large white bowl, and my stomach turns as I think back to that day. “Remember the day I came here?”

  His hand stills, and he looks at me. “I do.” That look of regret is back.

  “After you sent me away, I went back to the motel I was staying at to get my belongings and figure out what I was going to do. I had fifty dollars, not even enough to buy a bus ticket back to Illinois—” I pause when I think about it. “I was so scared. I didn’t know how or what I was going to do.”

  He sets his bowl on the ottoman a
nd leans forward, his arms resting on his knees.

  “Anyway, as I was walking down the frontage road, Alex stopped. He could see I was upset.”

  “So you just got in the car with him?” His brows furrow as he disagrees with my actions.

  I nod. “I did. I had bumped into him the night before at the motel, and I felt a strange connection to him.” I still remember every detail of the first time I saw him. The clothes he wore, his watch, his shoes—his cologne. A lump forms in my throat, but I’m able to swallow it down and continue. “It was so hot that day, and like I said, I had nothing. No money. I didn’t know where I was going—I was hopeless. Alex saved me.”

  “You do realize how dangerous that man is? Right, Emilia?”

  “Alex wasn’t dangerous with me,” I tell him softly. “He was caring, considerate, and honest. He didn’t want that life—but that’s all he knew. That’s how he was raised.”

  My dad shakes his head slowly. “Emilia, the Estrada family isn’t honest. They aren’t nice people. They smuggle drugs, people, and they kill anyone that gets in their way.”

  I wince at the truth of that. But Alex wasn’t like that. “I didn’t know what Alex did when I met him. He came clean after a while and told me everything. He doesn’t murder. He doesn’t smuggle. He manages the business side of things—money, et cetera.”

  “Money made at the hands of innocent people. He may not pull the trigger, but he’s just as guilty.”

  My breaths quicken, and tears fill my eyes. “It doesn’t matter anymore, does it? He’s dead,” I stutter.

  “It does matter because you’re not safe. You don’t have enough information for witness security protection, but you have enough that you’re dangerous to the Estrada family. It’s a real predicament, Emilia.” His voice is caring and concerned.

  I feel his disappointment in me, and while it shouldn’t matter what he thinks—it does. “I know,” I admit. “That’s why I’m leaving. I decided it’s safer if I disappear on my own.”

  “Where are you going?” he asks, surprised by my news.

  “Safer if I don’t say.” I give him a small, sad smile and wipe the tears from my cheeks with the back of my hand.

  “Emilia, someone needs to know where you are.”

  “Maybe in time,” I reply reluctantly. “Once I know it’s safe, after they’re able to catch Antonio and Saul, I’ll be able to tell you… But right now, I have to think about my baby, and it’s just better if I disappear.”

  “When? When are you planning to do this?”

  “Soon. I don’t have an exact date. There are a couple of loose ends I want to tie up here first, and I’ll need your help in arranging it.”

  “Anything you need,” he says sincerely, and I believe him. His face is twisted with sadness, but I can also see that he understands. He knows I’m right, but doesn’t like to be wrong either.

  “I’m going to head to bed. Is there anything you need before I turn in?”

  “Yes, two things. Tomorrow, I’d like to go to Alex’s gravesite.”

  My dad’s eyes widen in surprise, but he just nods and listens.

  “I know his funeral was supposed to be today, but with Sam being shot, I don’t know if it happened. Do you?”

  “I don’t know,” he says carefully, strangely. “I can surely find out, though.”

  “Regardless, I need to go there before I leave.”

  “Okay,” he says quietly.

  “And lastly, do you have a computer I can borrow?”

  “I do. In the office.” He points down a different hallway on the opposite side of the house. “Just login as a guest; you can access the Internet from there.”

  “Thanks,” I tell him, and he steps out, bowl in hand.

  As I head to the office, I make a mental list of everything I need to do to put my plan in motion. Sitting down at the oversized mahogany desk, I feel small in the large, leather chair. Everything is neat and modern and in its place. A picture of a blonde woman is framed on the desk. I assume this is Gretchen. She looks remarkably like my mom, and I wonder momentarily if that’s why he was attracted to her. Logging in, I pull up my email, my bank account, an airline, and all the pin boards I’ve made on the site Sam showed me. These simple boards hold my plans… my future.

  When I get to my bank account, I gasp in disbelief. Eight hundred and fifty thousand dollars was wired to my account sometime in the last couple of weeks. Alex. He must’ve done this before he was shot in an effort to hide money. I glance around the room in a panic, wondering who I need to tell, but for now, I use only the money that I made at Café Au Lait.

  I purchase a one-way plane ticket and print the itinerary, then scroll through the pin boards, a strange excitement brewing in my belly. Shutting down the computer, I head to bed for the first time with a sense of hope… a fresh start, a new beginning lies just in front of me.

  “RIGHT, HERE. PULL over right here,” I instruct the agent shuffling me around town today. The car slows to a stop and the gravel under the wheels crunches under its weight. “Am I okay to spend a few minutes alone, or do you need to be right next to me?” I ask, curious how this all works.

  The agent looks over his shoulder and scans the empty cemetery. The place is empty despite a small group of men working on the landscaping across the way. “I can wait here. Take as much time as you need.” He pulls out his cellphone and starts tapping at the screen.

  My heart races as I step from the car and cross the plush green grass. I remember the day we buried my mom… it was late summer, eerily similar to today. The sun was bright and made the cemetery beautiful. Shocks of color shone from the floral arrangements and the trees, and even though the trees are taller and fuller now, the cemetery looks exactly the same.

  I spot her resting place before I even reach it. Just beyond the towering oak tree. But I stand frozen in place when I see her name on the granite headstone. It looks smaller than I remember, although still beautiful. Treading carefully across the grass, I kneel next to her plot. “Mama,” I whisper as I run my fingers through the soft blades of grass. “I’m so sorry,” I muster out.

  I remember her smiling face in the photo I had of all of us, the same one Sam has. Her long, dark hair, her light brown eyes… her caring smile.

  And I remember Father Mark’s words to me. “Visit your mother. Talk to her.” And I do. I let it all go. I mumble it all through tears. How much I’ve missed her, how much I love her. The terrible things I’ve done, and the amends I’m trying to make.

  I tell her about Sam, and how I’m trying to do right by him. I tell her about Emilia, our baby, and trying to do right by them as well.

  Everything comes out. Emotions I believed I was incapable of feeling, buried under the surface, bubble to the top and spill over. I feel such comfort here in her spiritual presence. I can almost feel her hand on my back, her fingers running through my hair, and her arms wrapped tightly around me. I swear I can smell the lightest hint of her perfume and hear her sweet voice whispering to me that everything is going to be okay.

  I confess my sins and pray. I make apologies and promises, and vow to be a better man. After hours of this, I feel emotionally and physically spent, but far more at peace than when I came.

  Not yet ready to leave, though, I sit with my back pressed to the hard bark of the oak tree, taking deep breaths and drawing the warm afternoon air deep into my lungs. I can smell the fresh cut grass and the light scent of the oleander bushes that line the perimeter in the distance.

  I’m in a weird state of peace when I see a figure coming closer. Suddenly, everything comes to a sudden stop as I watch her. Her long, thin legs dance across the grass. Her hair bounces around her shoulders. One arm is wrapped protectively around her still flat belly while the other one moves with each step.

  Oh shit.

  In one quick motion, I slide around the base of the tree, allowing the large trunk to hide me. I make eye contact with the agent in charge of my security, and he motion
s for me to stay down. I nod and motion to him that Emilia is okay, safe, and he nods back, ducking behind his vehicle and watching us intently.

  As she nears, my heart is fucking pounding. Blood rushes through my head, momentarily silencing the world around me. My girl. As she comes to a stop where I was sitting an hour ago, she lifts her shaky hands and covers her mouth. It’s now that I realize she’s staring at my name engraved on the granite headstone. Tears fall from her eyes as she gasps for air, then she sits and buries her face in her hands.

  Guilt ravages me as I watch her fall apart. I fucking hate that I’m putting her through this.

  Her words are quiet and sad, her spirit broken, and I can’t stand it any longer. I don’t hesitate a second longer before I step out from behind the tree. She’s slumped forward now, her hands on her knees. I can’t watch this anymore. I can’t take it.

  Jogging over to her, I wrap myself around her. “Em, Em, Em… I’ve got you. I’ve got you, Em.”

  “No!” she screams and fights against me. “No,” she cries. She must not realize I’m real. Exactly what I was fearing.

  “Em, it’s me… stop.” I try to console her.

  Finally, she frees herself from my grasp, falling to her back. When her eyes register me, she loses it, unleashing a string of blood-curdling screams. From the corner of my eye, I watch both our security detail sprinting toward us.

  Standing up, I warn them, “Stop! Stop. I’m not going to hurt her.” I wait for things to click with her, but she’s rolled to her side in the fetal position. “Em, please. It’s me. It’s Alex.” I kneel next to her, brushing the hair off her face.

  “Don’t hurt me,” she mumbles, shaking her head as if she doesn’t believe what she’s seeing. And she shouldn’t. To her, I’m dead.

  “Emilia, I’m alive,” I whisper. “I have a lot to explain, but I need to you to focus. Pull yourself together,” I urge her while our security detail are holding guns and watching us closely. “I’m not going to hurt her! For fuck’s sake, back the hell off. Put the fucking guns away!” After a hesitant moment, my guy slowly backs off and holsters his gun, but Emilia’s doesn’t. I see him talking to the agent assigned to me, and he nods, but he doesn’t fully retreat.