Page 56 of No Sweeter Poison

I already know.

A lejandro isn’t back yet by the time Diego and I get home.

It’s just the two of us and Lettie for dinner and when we finish, we part ways for the evening. I shuffle around my suitcase for something to put the seashells in and eventually find a velvet tie-string bag. I dump its contents on the bed, mostly bangles and earrings, and put the seashells inside. By the time I clean up the mess and slip out of my bedroom, it’s midnight and most of the lights in the house are off. Diego and Lettie are early risers and are never in bed later than eleven.

Alejandro, on the other hand, is a night owl. Sometimes, I see the light on in his office when I go to kitchen to get water in the middle of the night.

When I reach his office, the light is off, so I push the door open and slip inside. For the most part I know my way in the darkness and locate the lamp on his desk without tripping over any furniture. The moment I set the bag down on the desk, a voice comes up behind me.

“What are you doing here?”

A lejandro

Dahlia startles and spins around, almost knocking over the lamp behind her. I step off the balcony and close the doors behind me, making sure to put out my cigar on the tray I left near the credenza.

She wraps her arms around herself as if that may shield her, from what, I’m not sure, but she remains rooted in place as I make my way across the room. She’s dressed for bed in one of her robes and pajama sets, feet tucked into a pair of fuzzy slippers Lettie probably gave her. I stop a few paces away and she reaches behind her for the velvet bag she left on my desk then extends it to me.

“Truce?”

She’s so insufferably difficult to read sometimes. One minute, she insists on boundaries and distance, the next she acts as if my distance bothers her. I almost wish I hadn’t taken her to the villa but regret the thought immediately after it takes form. If she’s upset with me, it’s because I deserve it. I can put up with a few mood swings and mixed messages—it won’t kill me. But leaving this villa will kill her.

The weight of the velvet in my hands feels off. The bag’s too big to be this light, twice the size of my fist, and it sounds like marbles are moving around inside. I untie the knot at the top and pour out its contents.

Seashells.

Some big, others small, almost all of them in varying shades of red, pink, blue, and yellow. My father’s favorite was the conch shell; he insisted on having one everywhere he went. I’ve seen some as big as a foot and a half and others as small as my pinky finger. This one is the latter, peachy pink on the inside and pearlescent beige on the outside.

I almost smile, thinking of how Dad used to always lift them to his ear to hear the ocean when I remember.

“How did you—”

“Diego dragged me along on one of his trips today,” she grips her elbows. “To be fair, I told him you might get mad if I went that far without you knowing.”

I roll the shell between my fingertips. “The nearest beach is a little far from here.”

About an hour and fifteen-minute drive.

Dahlia bites down on her bottom lip until it turns bright red. “I like it better when we’re fighting…instead of all this quiet stuff.”

“Is this your way of apologizing?”

Her eyes shift between brown and amber. “Depends.”

“On?”

“Whether or not you’re going to make me say it.”

“I’m not going to make you say it.”

“Well…all right then. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

She walks past me and toward the door. I turn around.

“Dahlia?”

She pauses at the threshold. Glances over her shoulder.