Page 41 of An Immaculate Deception

“Leandro,” I say carefully. “Where is she now?”

Leandro shakes his head, as though he fears I am going to seek her out. Perhaps he doesn’t know.

“Leandro,” I repeat. “Do you know where she is right now?”

“I…don’t know. At her house, I suppose.”

So he doesn’t know. Or he knows and is lying, and if there is one thing I know about Leandro it’s that he is a very good liar.

“When did you last see her?”

He narrows his eyes, thinking. “Maybe four days ago. Why?”

Four days ago. This explains the lavender perfume. I wasn’t wrong, she slept in this house recently.

It’s possible then that Doctor Lobo had her captive in his house the whole time.

From the conversation I overheard this morning, it was clear that Doctor Lobo’s aim was to perform the ritual spell. But why did he involve me in it? Maybe his plan was to have me wield the dagger so if the police ever find out, he can blame me.

I recall the three women in the daguerreotype photograph of the order. They were wearing the peculiar dresses that resemble the dress Leandro gave me to wear. Maybe she was one of them. Maybe she was a member of the order, and it was Doctor Lobo who introduced her to Leandro in the first place. Somehow Doctor Lobo, Leandro, and this woman are all interconnected. And now I am involved, too. Doctor Lobo lured me into his web.

“Why are you asking about her?” Leandro says. He looks nervous.

I can’t reveal that I saw her and she is dead. He’ll tell the authorities, and they will investigate. And if they investigate…No, it is best not to tell him, at least not yet. I need to think about this.

Suddenly, I hear horses outside. I rise, relieved that my carriage is finally here. I am desperate to leave this place and return home, even if it means facing Mother.

“Finally, good heavens,” Maria das Dores remarks, looking out the window. “Doctor Lobo has arrived.”

“What?” Leandro and I cry.

“I sent for him,” Maria das Dores says. “When I saw how bruised you were, Sinhá Madalena. Is there a problem?”

24

I bolt down the stairs without waiting for Leandro’s reaction. I pause briefly in the parlor, assessing. Through the window I see, in the driveway, Lobo’s carriage. The carriage door swings open and Doctor Lobo starts to climb out. I see, too, another man in the carriage with him. My blood runs cold. They’ve come for me. I thought they might eventually, but not so quickly. Curse Maria das Dores! I recall the chilling words she cannot leave that chamber. I saw the dead girl and now they mean to kill me.

There is no carriage other than Doctor Lobo’s. They never prepared the carriage for me to leave.

I sprint through the kitchen, heading for the service exit. I run past a gawking Maria das Dores, through the back door. I frantically call out to her to send for the police, but I don’t wait for her response.

I step outside, onto the back of the property where they can’t see me. The sky is a swollen whitish gray. I must make for the trees and take cover there, where they won’t find me.

I dart toward the back woods. I pass the guava trees and hibiscus bushes, heading through the open field and the back patio with the upturned furniture. I am surprised at the newfound strength in my body, and can only imagine it is the adrenaline, the will to live which is invigorating me to such ability. I pass the narrow weed-infested path that leads to the graveyard that Maria das Dores said was forbidden. I push through ankle-length brush, no longer sure if I’m on a path of any sort, but hoping the winding twists will provide me some cover. I’m too terrified to look back.

The ground shifts beneath me with the weight of a presence fast approaching. I hear someone, though I cannot see him. I hear snapping twigs and branches, grunting and heavy breathing, closer and closer.

I reach a clearing with a dozen weathered gravestones. The graveyard that Maria das Dores warned me about. Clouds hang heavy above us, dense and gray. The only farmhouses within view are way down in the valley past the river, tiny as dollhouses, many kilometers away. I scream for help anyway.

The hillside grows steeper and rockier, making it hard for me to keep up the pace.

A crushing force tackles me from behind. It slams against my back and I collapse, arms flailing and scraping dirt and wet grass. Pain freezes my senses, then the man’s weight is on me, rendering me immobile. His knee digs into my back. He pushes my face so hard into the ground that I taste soil, and a protruding rock chips my tooth.

He pulls my wrists behind my back, then I feel a rope bind them. The realization takes me to a deeper place of dread: They brought ropes. My efforts to break free only manage to scrape my skin against the rocks. I feel the rope tighten around my wrists, then he binds my ankles. The mangled scream I hear is so hideous, I hardly recognize it as my own.

“I won’t tell anyone what I saw,” I say, panting. “Why would I do that? It would incriminate me as well. It was I who killed her. Why would I tell a soul about it?”

“You should have left the blindfold on.”