Attraction, desire, and sinfully beautiful, Mika Santana is a devil with the face of an angel. Despite her tragic past, she's never given up her ruthless pursuits for success and vengeance which leaves little to no room for matters of the heart. But...
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The backs of my eyes burn so goddamn much that I reluctantly give up, closing the notebooks in front of me.
I'd been doing nothing but staring at it for the past hours. Digesting everything written on them and allowing the evidence to invade my mind like a malicious brain-eating insect. Information strokes from my fingertips as I continuously come up with possibilities. It didn't make sense why the police closed the case. There are too many coincidences for the reality of Ander's death to be written off as nothing.
There are plenty of correlations, but I didn't have enough evidence to solidify my suspicions. It's so fucking frustrating. If I can figure out the missing pieces, I wouldn't look like madman conspiracy theories to others. It's here, under my nose. Hidden in the believable writing that has everyone so settled on keeping it closed.
My eyes drift to the digital alarm clock standing on my bookshelf, reading half past midnight. When I'm not working myself to the bone on Jefe's business, I spend the remainder of my time trying to make a breakthrough. As an art major, I know little to nothing about where to start, but it's just me.
Only me.
I'm the only one willing to clear my brother's name and crack the truth hidden behind metal bars. My neck throbs from being in this position for far too long. Stress clings to my limbs like a child that suffers from separation anxiety. It never disappears. I never have a moment of peace unless I'm with Mika.
It's almost one.
Fuck.
If I race there, I can still outbid everyone else for the night. My visits have become a daily thing since I devoured her pussy a week ago. But despite my desperation for her attention, Mika has taken a few days off. Diablo wouldn't reveal too many details about her sudden disappearance, but I had a foreboding feeling.
Is she avoiding me?
Is she hurt from figuring out my identity?
No. It couldn't be. Mika isn't the type to be offended by my secrets. Maybe she really is sick. Her complex is across the town, nearing the upper east side. If I had enough confidence, I would run over and shower her with gifts. Chocolate strawberries, bath bombs, medicine, a cooling pad, hugs, and my undivided attention.
But I wouldn't.
I'm a coward, nothing new. Instead, I grab my car keys and sprint down the staircase to the front door. Before closing the door, I grab my jacket and freeze in place when a loud cough breaks the silence. Panic wafts off my body like my own personal fragrance as I slowly craned my neck back, facing my papa. Deep angry grooves shape his face, his eyes sliding from his nose to his lap. He drops the journal on his lap.
"Adónde crees que vas a la 1 de la madrugada," he speaks firmly.
(Where do you think you are going at 1 in the morning?)
