Sins & Secrets 2

  I see spots.

  I hear Tenner laugh.

  I fight to stay conscious, crawling across the floor toward the door, digging my fingernails into the carpet.

  I start to slip away from reality. The last thing I see is the door swing open and a pair of boots appear, followed by the sound of a voice I swear I’ve heard before.

  Then I black out.

  Chapter 5

  Lola

  When I return to consciousness, I’m still in the hotel room but lying on the bed with a wet washcloth over my forehead. I slowly sit up, my head throbbing. I feel like I’m about to vomit.

  A lamp is on, but other than that, the room appears untouched. I even seem untouched, fully dressed, the gun tucked back in its spot inside my boot, and I’m not aching between my legs. The only things that let me know I didn’t dream the attack are the bump on my head, blood caked in my hair, the red marks on my wrists where he gripped me roughly, and the pain erupting throughout my body.

  Where’s Tenner?

  There’s not a single sign he was here, which makes me wonder if he ran off, or if whoever the boots belonged to did something to him. I don’t waste time thinking about it, though, since the last thing I want to do is be here in case he comes back.

  I get up and hurry out of the room, taking the stairway out to avoid people, while I try to put together what happened.

  Someone came into the room, but who? Who the hell knew what was going on? Were they there to save me? Be a part of the situation? I doubt it.

  It’s a cold night. The sky is clear enough I can see the stars shining brightly.

  As I make my way across the parking lot toward the corner where I can hopefully find a taxi, I start to wrap my arms around myself, trying to stop shivering. However, I notice there’s something written on the palm of my hand in what looks like my red lipstick

  Don’t trust anyone.

  I look around the area and over my shoulder with the strangest feeling that I’m being watched.

  I saw boots before I passed out. Who did they belong to? And did they write this on my hand? Did they write me the notes, too?

  Confused beyond comprehension, I find a cab. Then I dial Nyjah’s private number once the driver is heading toward my apartment.

  He answers after three rings. “Hey, I was just thinking about you. Look, I know things got a little intense this afternoon, and I just wanted to say I’m sorry, and hopefully you’ll forgive me.”

  “Am I also supposed to forgive you for sending me on a date with a sick pervert who likes to rape women?” I don’t mean to sound so bitter, but what if Nyjah knew what Reagan was doing?

  “What the hell are you talking about?” He sounds shocked and offended. “What happened? Where are you?”

  “In the back of a cab.” I slump back in the seat, glancing up at the driver who seems to be engulfed in driving. “Tell me you didn’t know about it. Tell me you had no idea your father set this all up.”

  “Didn’t know what, exactly? Lola, I’m going to need more to go on here.”

  “That guy you sent me with—Tenner—he tried to rape me tonight and ended up knocking me unconscious.” I bite down on my tongue as emotions start to erupt. I won’t go there. I won’t feel the fear. “Said Reagan had something to do with it. That he told him it was okay. He even paid extra.”

  Nyjah lets out a sequence of curses. Then I hear what sounds like glass shattering.

  “Goddammit, I’m going to kill him for doing this.”

  “You can’t kill your father,” I say dryly, pressing my hand to my head as it starts to pound. “It’d be unethical.”

  “Yeah, well … He deserves it.”

  “Yeah, but you wouldn’t deserve the pain and guilt that came after.”

  He pauses, and I swear I just gave him a time machine that allows him to see straight into my past.

  “Okay, so I won’t kill him. But I can beat the shit out of him to the point that he’ll be close to dead.”

  Silence stretches between us. I don’t know what to say. I don’t want to instigate violence. I’ve had enough of that.

  Finally, he releases a stressed breath. “Are you heading home now?”

  I glance out the window at the street sign. “Yeah, I’m only a few blocks away.”

  “I can come over if you want … to check on you. I need to see if you’re okay.”

  I shake my head. “No, don’t do that. I’m fine. Just please find out if Reagan plans on sending me creepers like this every night. I might need to find a new job.”

  “I’ve been telling you that since the day you walked into the Inn. You shouldn’t be working at a place like this. It’s not in you.”

  It was in my mother.

  “How come you don’t say that to all the women?” I ask. “You encourage most of them to keep going.”

  “Because they’re different from you.”

  “How so?”

  “They’re just … just … Look, I’ll talk to Reagan and see what’s going on. But like I’ve been saying, you might want to consider taking that secretarial job. It’s much safer for you, Lola. More than you realize.” His tone carries an underlying meaning, making me wonder just what he knows about his father and business.

  “I’m fine. Just let me know what you find out.”

  A few minutes later, I get out of the taxi and hurry into my apartment, double-checking that all the doors are locked, a habit I picked up when I was younger. Then I immediately undress and take a shower, scrubbing my skin until it’s raw, until I no longer feel the day on me.

  After the shower, I put on a robe then open my closet, moving a few boxes so I can put the gun away in the trunk that holds my other weapons: a smaller gun, a few knives, and a tranquilizer. I’m always prepared for when the Defontelles catch up with me. Although, after tonight, I’m wondering if I’ll be able to do it.

  I froze up again. God, I don’t even want to think about what could have happened if the boots person hadn’t shown up.

  After my weapons are put away, I move to the bed and take out the letter, hoping it’ll distract me for a little while from this shitty day. I’ve probably read the thing a thousand times since I found it almost two years ago. It was dated seven years before that, the night before my mom died, addressed to an Everson Milantes.

  Dear Everson,

  I know it’s been over a decade and a half since we spoke to each other, and I know you said not to contact you, all things considered, but I really need to talk to you.

  I’m not even sure how to start. However, I’ll put it like this: it may break hearts and ruin lives, but it could also free lives, like my daughter’s. Or, I should say, our daughter’s. There. I wrote it. It’s out.

  She’s beautiful, feisty, strong—way stronger than anyone I’ve ever met … The things she’s been through … I can’t even imagine.

  God, I know you’re probably reading this and thinking: How? How could I not tell you until now when she’s all grown up? How could I keep this, not only from you, but from her?

  Well, at first, it was because I wasn’t sure if she was yours. There was a time when you both sort of crossed over, which I’m so sorry for. But if I’m being honest with myself, a lot of it had to do with me being afraid. Afraid of living a life where I had to struggle for money. Afraid of her living one, as well. Afraid of what Larenze would do.

  I thought I could protect her and myself by keeping everything a secret, but I was wrong. And I’m really starting to worry that the wrong people will find out. You know as well as I do what the consequences for this will be for the both of us.

  Please, please tell me you’ll help her. You were such a kind man. Please tell me I didn’t break the kindness from you by choosing Larenze.

  I really need your help, Everson. There’s so much more to it. More than I can put into words. Larenze has his secrets, as well, and I’ve been looking into them. What I’m finding makes me even more afraid. Not just for myself, but for our da
ughter. I don’t want her following in those footsteps anymore, but I fear it’s too late. She can’t go back from where she’s heading. So, please, help.

  Yours,

  Lalana Anders Anelli

  The letter never made it to Everson because my mother died the next day, which is another reason I find her death such a mystery. Yes, it could be coincidental, but at the same time, what if the wrong person found out that I might not be an Anelli, like my father? I’d love to be one of those people who couldn’t believe her father was capable of such a thing, but I’m not.

  I’ve heard some of the things my father’s capable of. God-awful things that make even me afraid of him, and apparently, my mother, as well. She clearly didn’t want me following in his footsteps but already thought I was, which hurts.

  Back when she wrote it, I didn’t think I was a bad person. Now it’s different, but she couldn’t possibly have known that, could she? Did she really think that poorly of me? She clearly thought that poorly of my father.

  I have to wonder, as afraid as she sounded, did he have something to do with her death?

  My thoughts drift to what the guy on the corner told me earlier, about the woman hanging around The Dusky Inn who looked like me. The last time I saw my mother was when she was in her coffin. Dead.

  She was dead. I saw her die. But what if she didn’t?

  After analyzing my mother’s death and the letter for way too long, I put it away, get up, and wander over to the window to stare out at the night. I live in an apartment complex in a quiet neighborhood that normally makes me feel safe. Tonight, though, it feels different.

  Every shadow, every noise, every movement makes me jump. I’m not sure if it’s the random letters, or if Tenner’s attack has me more frightened than I’m allowing myself to admit. Regardless, it is a safe place. A small town in the middle of nowhere. The perfect setup. But maybe they did found out where I am living. I wouldn’t be too hard to track down.

  What if they’re out there watching me?

  Who are they?

  As I’m staring out the window, I notice a car parked at the curb just across the street. It’s black with tinted windows, nearly blending into the night. To me, however, it stands out like a sore thumb. All the mafia men I grew up with have that type of car to keep a low profile. Could this be it? Could this be who’s been sending me notes? I need to find out where the plates are from.

  Hurrying over to my closet, I slip on a jacket and a pair of boots, and then I grab one of my smaller handguns to avoid scaring the shit out of my neighbors if I cross paths with one. Then I go out the back door so if there is someone in the car, they won’t see me coming.

  I rush down the steps, keeping my back to the wall, my eyes focused on the field out back. It’s flat and bare enough I can see there’s nothing out there. With the coast clear, I round the corner of the apartment and lower my gun to my side.

  I stay in the shadows of the carports and cars as long as possible, cautiously crossing the parking lot. Then I backtrack before I approach the rear of the car.

  When I get close enough, I see the plates aren’t from Massachusetts, but from here, with a bright neon green sticker that says, “Back off my rear.” The sticker stands out on the fancy car, seeming oddly out of place.

  It doesn’t look like there’s anyone inside, so I move around to peer into the window. It’s clean and empty, except for a few papers in the middle console and a bag on the passenger seat.

  I glance around, making sure no one is nearby, then open the door and search around. The receipts aren’t cause for suspicion—gas, food, the norm. I move to the bag, which is strangely empty. Yet again, nothing to raise a red flag.

  I open the glove box and find rental car papers. Nothing else. I don’t relax yet, though, not until I check the trunk. The trunk is where all the bad stuff is kept.

  I pop it open, climb out of the car, and round the back. Only a tire iron, a jack, and a pair of black boots sit in there. Again, odd, but it’s nothing to be alarmed about.

  Shaking my head at myself, I close the trunk then turn to go back inside, stopping dead in my tracks as I’m about to cross the street. For a flicker of a second, I swear I see someone in the shadows of the parking lot, watching me. Tall, with a hoodie pulled over their head, smoking a cigarette and wearing boots. Could it be those boots? The boots who saved me?

  When I blink, they’re gone. It happens so fast that it has to be my imagination. Or the bump on my head.

  Dammit, I need to find out who wrote the note before I go crazy. Or end up dead.

  Chapter 6

  Lola

  I don’t plan on going to work at The Dusky Inn the next day, not after what happened with Tenner. I’m not planning on quitting or anything, simply because I need the cash. Although, I’ll admit I’m more shaken up than I’d like to be. Subsequently, I spend most of the morning trying to bury everything down where it belongs.

  But while I’m working at the dealership, I get a call from Reagan telling me I can either come in tonight or not get the couple grand owed to me for the prior two weeks’ work. He doesn’t give me time to argue, just hangs up when he’s done. So, once I get off work, I get my ass down to the Inn.

  I think about going to Nyjah first, but then decide to face this head-on. It’s my problem, and as such, no one else needs to get involved.

  Reagan has an office upstairs that has rows of windows, but he’s chosen to board them up so not a single drop of sunlight can sneak in. It’s always dark and musty in there, smelling a little moldy. There’s this antique armoire in the corner that’s always locked with a chain and padlock. In the far back corner is a desk that’s always cluttered in garbage and papers, and when I walk in, Reagan is sitting there, reading a paper over it.

  He has shoulder-length hair, always wears a worn T-shirt, and is smoking a cigarette. He doesn’t look like Nyjah, except for the eyes. Reagan has more wrinkles around them, and they are harder, unwelcoming.

  “I’m here,” I announce as I enter the office, instantly noticing he has a gun on the desk.

  Suddenly, I’m really glad I brought mine.

  He glances up from the paper he’s reading, eyes lazily drifting over me and making me feel naked, though I’m wearing a pencil skirt and blouse.

  I’ve never liked Reagan. Something about him rubs me the wrong way. Now, it’s even worse. My spidey-senses are going crazy.

  “And so you are.” He motions for me to come in. “Have a seat, Lola.”

  “No thanks.” I shake my head, my eyes drifting toward his gun. “I think I’m good right here.”

  He glances down at the gun then back up at me. “I always carry this on me; you know that.”

  “Yeah, but after what happened last night with Tenner, I don’t trust you anymore.” I lean against the doorframe and cross my arms. “Well, I shouldn’t say anymore, since I never trusted you to begin with.”

  “Watch it, Lola.” He tosses the pen he’s holding onto the desk then leans back in his seat. “After last night, you’re already walking on thin ice.”

  “You should have never told that creep I’d do what he wanted to do,” I say in a clipped tone. “You had no right.”

  He shrugs, overlapping his hands on his stomach. “I thought you were a tough girl. You’ve always come across as one.” Another shrug, and it takes a hell of a lot of energy not to march across the room and punch him in the face. “Guess I was wrong.”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “It’s not like that, and you know it.”

  “Well, whatever it is, you now owe me a thousand bucks.” His nonchalant attitude is pissing me off.

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Yes, you do.” He sits up. “For losing me money last night and a client.”

  I take a cautious step into the room. “Tenner called you last night and told you what happened, I’m guessing?” I pause, not wanting to ask, but I need to know what happened after I blacked out. “Did he say anything else?”
r />   “Not really. Only that my business was a joke and he was never going to use or recommend The Dusky Inn services to anyone.” His brows knit the slightest bit. “Honestly, he seemed kind of nervous, which makes me wonder what exactly happened between you two.”

  He waits for me to explain, but I stay quiet. As much as I don’t want to answer any of Reagan’s questions, I couldn’t even if I wanted to.

  “Fine, don’t tell me anything,” Reagan says in a low voice that carries a warning. “But here’s what you’re going to do to make it up to me—”

  “I don’t owe you anything. So don’t pretend I do. That guy—Tenner—tried to beat the shit out of me, and whatever happened was self-defense. What I did to him was fair.”

  “Nothing is fair in this world.” He leans forward and reaches for a paper on his desk. “Now sit down.”

  “I already told you, I’m standing.” I take a step back toward the doorway. “In fact, you know what? I think I’ll leave now. I’m done talking about this.”

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Lola Anders,” he calls out as I’m turning to exit the room.

  I freeze mid-turn, my jaw dropping. “That’s not my name.” My voice is barely a whisper.

  “Isn’t it?” Amusement sparkles in his eyes. Clearly, he’s enjoying this.

  I ball my hands into fist and stab my fingernails into my palms, attempting to shove down the anxiety clawing its way through my body. “No … And you know that.”

  “I know a lot of things about you, Lola Anders.” He pauses. “Or is it, Lola Anelli? I’m not sure what you used to prefer to go by.”

  Suddenly, it’s starting to makes sense. The notes.

  I whirl around, glaring. “It was you, wasn’t it? You were the one doing it.”

  “I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” he says coolly, but I detect a hint of puzzlement. “I’ve done a lot of things, Lola, so you’ll have to be more specific.”

  My fingers hover above the gun strapped to my leg, hidden beneath my shorts. “You sent me the notes.”