While I worked to unlock my door--it always stuck--movement to my side caught my attention. Mr. Shadwell, my creepy apartment supe/manager, stared at me with his buglike eyes.
He was one of those Florida rednecks who should never have left the swamp. He wore a sweat-stained wifebeater that showed off his puny arms and furry shoulders. He didn't even offer to help me as I struggled with my lock.
In our last conversation, I'd asked him to fix my leaking roof. He'd propositioned me again. So for now, I kept pots all over my studio.
Already, he'd been hitting me up for "protection deposits." My need for anonymity meant I didn't get to do anything about it. Basically, I paid him not to attack me--as he did the vulnerable single moms, prostitutes, and undocumented workers in the complex, those who would never go to the police.
Shadwell was the reason I hadn't saved money to move. Which was why I'd screwed the Russian.
"Busy night?" The pig smirked, flashing his hit-or-miss teeth. His love of filterless cigarettes had left the remaining ones discolored.
I considered and discarded answers--girls' night out? Bachelorette party? But this insect of a man wouldn't force me to lie. My lock started to give way.
Before I could get inside, he rubbed his paunch, then lower. Too low. "We'll be seeing you real soon."
I couldn't help but think I'd just received a warning.
After dead-bolting my door behind me, I leaned back against it. Coming from the Seltane penthouse to my cramped studio was like a slap in the face.
In my kitchenette, the stove didn't work, nor the little refrigerator. I had a miniature microwave for canned dinners. A large bowl contained apples, bananas, and oranges to eat on the run. Strategically placed pots littered the floor. I'd moved my pitiful sagging bed into the center of the room, under the largest area of non-leaking ceiling.
Dinero in hand, I wended around the pots to reach my "safe," my window AC unit, non-working of course. I used my Swiss Army knife to unscrew the filter, revealing a cranny. I added the money to my own meager operating fund: two hundred and fifty-seven dollars. Also inside were my fake ID and my one valuable: my mother's rosary. It'd been passed down through my family for generations and was the sole thing I'd taken from home.
The sight of Sevastyan's stack of cash next to the rosary made nausea churn in my gut.
Why had he turned something good into something dirty? I hadn't thought I could hate anyone else as much as Edward, but Maksimilian Sevastyan had made the podium.
What was it about me that men found so . . . disposable? Three years ago, Edward had planned on the ultimate disposal.
After fleeing him, I'd moved every six months, living in Arizona, Texas, Louisiana, and New Mexico. Half a year ago, I'd dared to return to Florida, figuring this would be the last place Edward would expect me to go. I'd headed to Miami, optimistic about getting lost in the sprawling city--and getting work without papers.
Was he here even now? Had I made a bad calculation?
I replaced the AC vent, screwing it into place, then sank down on my creaky bed. I lay back atop rough thrift-store sheets, replaying my Edward sighting. When that burst of recognition had hit, my muscles had tensed to run.
If that man was him, then the last three years had altered him. He was now gaunt with bitterness etched into his face. No more angelic good looks to recommend him.
I'd been seventeen when we'd had a "chance" meeting over my summer break. He'd told me he was an attorney from Atlanta who'd moved to Jacksonville to start his own practice. He'd also told me he was twenty-five, too old for me. I'd thought, Forbidden fruit!
He'd already seen the world; I'd never traveled far from home. He was a sophisticated gentleman; I'd been proud of my keg stands. He spoke four languages, though strangely not Spanish.
Despite our differences, we'd had an uncanny amount of things in common--we'd liked the same movies, music, sports, pastimes, and foods.
My mother had seen right through him, saying he was a sinner with the face of an angel. So naturally, I'd had to have him.
When she'd died and her strict rule had ended, I'd suddenly had no counterbalance to my own strong will. I'd floundered, grasping onto Edward for stability. Utterly naive about men, I'd accepted his heartfelt proposal of marriage, inviting him into my life, my home, my body.
Lightning flashed through my threadbare curtains, thunder shaking the building. Storms always reminded me of that last night with him. I'd come home early from a half marathon in nearby Savannah. A tropical depression had been blowing in, and the race had been canceled. I'd rushed home to help him batten down the hatches.
As I stared at my water-stained ceiling, my eyes lost focus, the memory overtaking me. . . .
A strange car was parked behind the house, a Jaguar. I almost hoped Edward was having an affair. It would explain so much, confirming my new suspicions. It would make my decisions going forward easier.
In one year of marriage, we'd gone from two people who had everything in common and finished each other's sentences to strangers.
I entered quietly, creeping up the stairs, hearing voices coming from our bedroom. I paused in the upstairs foyer. When my mother was alive, the walls had been covered with crucifixes and gloomy old portraits of our ancestors. After her death, Edward had hired a decorator, telling me, "You'll never move past her if you're constantly reminded. Let's make a fresh start."
I'd thought at the time, If you don't like mi madre's home, then why are we living here, instead of in your own mansion? The one I'd yet to see.
But I'd stifled that question, because it would open the door to so many other ones--a pulled thread that would unravel the blanket that I still occasionally slept with.
I'd agreed to the decorator, anything to repair the sudden rift between me and him, the one that'd appeared directly after our hasty courthouse wedding. He'd stopped calling me Lucia, insisting on Ana-Lucia (what my mother had called me when I was in trouble). He'd stopped flirting with me. We rarely had sex, and only at my urging.
I stepped closer to our room, avoiding the groaning spots in the wood floor. I knew their exact locations, had been sneaking out of this house since I was twelve.
At the door, I detected perfume and heard my husband and a woman speaking.
"This is taking too long," the woman said.
"You have to be patient and trust me." That was my husband's voice--but now he spoke with a British accent.
Who the hell was in my bedroom with my husband, and why had his accent changed? My fists clenched, my unruly temper about to blow. My first impulse was to bust inside and start cussing, but somehow I forced myself to bite my tongue and listen.
CHAPTER 7
"Listen up, folks, the final is next Monday at seven sharp," Ms. Gillespie, my econ instructor, told the class. She was a tall, graying brunette, with a no-nonsense demeanor. "And yes, I know it's cutting into your holiday break. Take it up with the active hurricane season."
Three classes this fall had been cancelled due to tropical storms; with each storm, my apartment had taken on water like a sinking ship--just as it had last night.
After no sleep, an early morning run, and a hard day of work, I'd had to drag myself to class. Despite my windfall, I'd been coerced by Mrs. Abernathy to clean her mansion. When I'd tried to quit, she'd told me she would report me to Immigration if I wasn't there. My no-undue-attention rule forced me to show.
"We'll spend tonight and Friday reviewing," Ms. Gillespie said. "So let's get started. I'm going to give you terms that might be on the exam. Define them and imagine real-world scenarios."