Spiders in the Grove (In the Company of Killers #7)(50)

“Are you waiting for a family member?” the man probes, trying to spark up conversation—she’s been quiet the three minutes since they sat down together.

“You have a good face,” the woman says.

The man blinks a few times, then sips from his coffee as a distraction.

“Thanks…” He glances at the ticket counter; the women laugh quietly when they see the bewildered look on his face.

The woman makes a move toward her purse, and he tenses briefly.

“I will show you,” she says, her voice always unnervingly calm, emotionless.

As the woman unzips her purse on the tabletop, the man uses the opportunity to covertly peer inside. He doesn’t see anything that could be used as a weapon, just a small packet of tissues, a wallet, a trial-size bottle of hand sanitizer, and other random things that typically end up in women’s purses.

She pulls out a small mirror.

“Have a look,” she says, and holds the mirror out for him to take it.

Reluctantly—and after another bewildered glance at his co-workers—he takes the mirror and holds it, not exactly sure what she wants him to do with it.

“Look,” she urges, nodding at the mirror.

The man swallows nervously, and then holds the mirror up in front of him.

“What am I…supposed to be looking at?”

“Your face.”

“I uh…”—he continues to look, his expression growing more uncomfortable by the second—“…OK, I’m looking. But all I see is a good-lookin’ Black guy.” He forces a smile, trying to fake comfort in the situation.

The woman reaches out and lays her delicate hand on his wrist, lowering his arm and the mirror in his hand.

“You have a good face,” she repeats.

She takes the mirror from his hand, hiding it away inside her purse again.

Then she stands.

“W-Where are you going?” The man sits there, confused by the whole exchange, but even more-so now that she has apparently decided to just walk away.

“The plane has arrived,” she says without looking back at him, and then she slips away into the crowd.

The man, and the women behind the ticket counter, watch her until she leaves the airport through the main doors.





Izabel


Funny how after so long, I can still separate Javier’s footsteps from everyone else’s. I can hear them now, coming down the hallway; he’s taking his time, and that sort of terrifies me. I try to steady my breath, and I straighten my back and hold my chin up high; my palms are sweating; my mouth is so damn dry. Calm down, Izabel.

The door to my prison opens and in walks one half of the men who shaped and molded who I became; tall and wicked and striking despite his many unforgivable flaws. He looks right at me, and it is the only thing that gives me hope. If he had taken his time about that, it would’ve meant he didn’t care about me anymore. But he looked as soon as he stepped through the doorway, as if he couldn’t wait any longer.

“Sarai,” he greets with a nod; he stands with his hands clasped behind his back.

“Javier.” I nod in return.

The exchange feels too formal, and that’s not a good sign.

He closes the door and approaches me; pulls a chair over and sits down on it in front of me, leaving his long legs open; he slouches his back against the chair and rests his large hands within his lap. But he doesn’t touch me, not even knee to knee, and the hope I’d found seconds earlier drains out of my body.

“I knew I’d see you again,” he says, and then looks at my bound hands. “I knew I’d see you like this.”

“Really? You never imagined I’d come back to kill you? Or to be with you?”

He smiles, close-lipped, letting me know that he never imagined, or could believe, either one.

“You know I can’t let you leave here alive,” he tells me, getting right to the point.

“Can’t, or won’t?”

He looks upward at the ceiling as if he’s pondering it, but he already knows the answer.

“Neither,” he says. “Can’t for obvious reasons. Won’t”—he purses his lips, tilts his head—“also for obvious reasons. Why did you come back? It wasn’t to kill me, I assume, or you wouldn’t have come here. I’m sure you knew I wasn’t here. So why did you come back?”

“I’ll tell you everything you want to know,” I say, “if first you’ll let Naeva and Leo go. You can have me, do whatever you want with me, but that’s my price.”

Javier smiles again. “Sure,” he says with a shrug. “But just to let you know, I already let them go.”

I blink, confused; I’m not sure I believe him. “Why would you do that? And how do I know you’re not lying to me?”

Javier brings his right leg up and rests his ankle atop his left knee; he crosses his arms.

“Leo Moreno is worth more alive than dead,” he says. “He and I have an arrangement—but none of that is your concern. I give you my word that he’s been set free, along with the woman who ruined him—she was his price.” He smirks. “You see, El Segador and I have something in common—women who ruined us. I guess you can say I took pity on him.”

I scoff. “You don’t take pity on anyone, Javier—it’s all about the money with you. And the power.”