Page 75 of Sin of Love

Paulo haunts me, too. Do whatever you have to do tonight to get away from that crazy motherfucker, do you hear me? He risked his life to give me a chance at freedom. When I think about all the times his rough voice called me back from the balcony’s ledge with unerring timing, when he brought me salve for burns or fresh bandages, or made my tea extra-strong after the worst nights, I can see he was doing everything he could for me. Keeping me alive was the only rebellion he was capable of, with a wife and daughters at home and a madman for a boss.

I hope Julep’s death spurned him to take his family and get away from the cartel, but I know it’s unlikely. Once you owe the cartel, they own you, and they never let you pay off your debt—even ones you didn’t know you had. From the very beginning, you were mine. Like the debt I owed for catching the eye of Marco Julius Lazcano.

I wonder if his father, Rafael, ever found out who I actually was—the same girl who tried to kill his son a decade prior. Maybe. Perhaps he suspects me in his son’s death and there’s a manhunt underway. Or he might have bought the media line of the Sinaloa Cartel taking credit.

The most likely option, though, is that Rafael was relieved to wash his hands of the entire situation—his son included. Although I didn’t pay attention to the conversation between father and son that night, I’ve spent a lifetime reading the undercurrents of a room. Julep hated his father and yet wanted badly to earn his respect. Rafael viewed his son as another employee, one he sadly couldn’t fire. He bore no paternal affection for his only child, but rather, distrust and dislike. Maybe he even saw me dump the drugs into Julep’s wine.

Maybe he didn’t stop me. Maybe he called off his men, and that’s why we weren’t pursued.I suppose I should be grateful I never met Mrs. Lazcano, the woman who nurtured her son’s demons. Even the thought of her knowing anything about me will give me nightmares for the rest of my life.

But the person who is with me most, spectral and demanding, is Maggie.

For five years in Los Angeles, she was my coworker and, if I’m honest, my only female friend. I relied on her opinions daily, respected her ambition and talent. We shared a dry sense of humor and love of Korean barbecue. Together with Trent, we were a publicity machine of unrivaled force.

In some ways, despite those years being built on a lie, they were the best of my life. I was successful. I was powerful. I proved to myself that a trailer park brat, street kid, and former trafficked teen from nowhere could be someone. Maggie helped me claim that, a truth bitter and hard.

Because of the duality of her character, I’ll always struggle to reconcile that version of her with who she became. Or always was.

My vicious, hateful enemy.

There were times—many—that I hated her, too, and wished upon her all the pain I endured. That I targeted her weaknesses with words, spewing poison to mask my fear.

I was never the better doll. We weren’t fucking dolls. And I’ll forever regret not telling her that, for not trying harder to reach the woman I knew she was beneath her twisted conditioning. Because mixed with my loathing and guilt is something like love. I understood her as no one else could, because we were victims of the same system that targets and monetizes innocence.

Maggie is gone, now, and I’m safer for it. I don’t regret her death, nor wish I could have stopped it. Not with Nate on her radar. I have no doubts she would have hurt him, killed him, to punish me for taking Julep from her. So along with my regret and heartache is relief.

Relief that Julep and Maggie are dead. That I never have to step foot in that house again, with its beautiful balconies and razor wire, or see the spot on the dining room table where my blood spilled, or the fireplace in Julep’s bedroom, or the shackles on his bed.

They’re all gone, except in my head, my memory. Here, they’ll live on, and there’s not a goddamn thing I can do about it. Because real life doesn’t tie up its loose ends with shiny ribbons. Real life is loose and fraying threads with colors that fade, and fade, until they dissolve like sea foam on the waves.

We don’t forget the past so much as we become a part of it. It never leaves us. I still don’t know if I can live with it, but I’m going to try.

Because… Gideon.

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