Page 3 of Nemesis
Back in the living room, I pulled my suitcase out from under the couch and changed into a pair of sweats, an oversized T-shirt, and a pair of unmatched fuzzy socks to warm my feet. I was still living out of a suitcase even after all these years, ready to move if the need arose.
I walked over to the kitchen to start a batch of coffee, when the mention of a familiar name filtered out from the TV, stopping me in my tracks.
Morales.
Heart pounding, I marched back to the couch and reached for the remote lying where I’d been sleeping, then turned the volume up.
“Sources are confirming that Elena Morales, wife of Victor Morales, CEO of Morales Industries, has unexpectedly passed away in a fire that ravaged their summer home in Adrar,” the reporter said. “As of now, authorities haven't released any information surrounding the events of her death. While we wait for more information, let’s take a look at the live footage from the Moraleses’ residence.”
The scenery shifted to an English style country home before the camera frame zoomed in on a black town car making its way up the driveway. As soon as it pulled to a stop, a swarm of men in black suits walked out of the house and stalked toward the car.
They barricaded the car door while one of them opened it, allowing its occupant to come out. The camera panned slightly past them to land on the individual they were shielding and my throat tightened once it finally focused on them.
It’s really him.
His black hair was slicked back, the salt-and-pepper scruff of his unshaven face emphasizing the sharpness of his features.
It was one thing to see him in pictures or when he haunted my dreams, but I was never prepared to see himbeing. Living his life carelessly, without regard for the lives he stole.
Reporters rushed toward them en masse, shouting questions and attempting to get a word from the newly widowed CEO, but one of his men pushed the cameras away as they advanced to the front door.
Another man, probably his attorney, stayed behind and turned to face the cameras.
“Mr. Morales is deeply affected by this news and needs time to process. We kindly ask for your discretion and privacy during this very difficult time.”
As he finished, one of the reports tried to follow up his statement with another question, but the attorney quickly shut him down. “No further comments,” he said before stepping away from the camera and heading toward the house.
It took a second for the information to sink in as the puzzle pieces slowly shifted, locking into their designated places.
The anchor's voice cut through my thoughts and when I looked up, the frame was back on her. I grabbed the remote again and flipped through the channels until I landed on aLalla Fatimare-airing, needing,cravingany sound as a welcomed distraction.
After theincident, noises in any form had become the only solace I sought. The deafening quiet was too much to bear, an incessant ringing combined with the shattering of flesh and bone always replacing it. So anything, literallyanythingelse was better to drone it out.
Stalking to the other side of the room, I lowered on the stiff plastic chair behind my desk and tucked my foot under me while I waited for my devices to power up.
Several worn notebooks were stacked beside the monitors and I sorted through them until I found the one I was looking for. The pages were colored with various shades of ink, filled with cramped writing.
The notebook contained everything I’d learned about Victor Morales. Every little detail, no matter how minute. From the moment his pathetic self was born, down to what he liked for breakfast.
I’d spent the last seven years becoming an expert on Victor Morales and everyone in his surroundings, each one of them with a dedicated notebook. I’d taken all my anger against the man and boiled down all my elaborate revenge daydreams into a single plan.
Once powered up, I connected my external hard drive and opened the news channel’s website, scrolling to find the broadcasted footage, and made a copy of it. While the video downloaded, I reached for the manila envelope on the far left and opened one side to retrieve the recent pictures I’d taken.
Studying them, I peered into her gaze, into the haunted look ghosting her eyes. The average onlooker wouldn’t notice the shadowed bruise under her eyes, the strategic distance she put between her and her husband, the slight wince when she moved. The average onlooker might not have seen the signs, but I did.
The video automatically started playing after it finished downloading. I only glanced up when I heard his name called. When he came into the frame, I paused it and zoomed onto his face.
Smirking, I reached for last night’s leftovers, tossed a broken piece of the cold meat-filledbriouatsinto my mouth, then washed it down with black coffee.
This is my way in.
The loss of his wife was my perfect opportunity.
CHAPTER2
SOFIA
Iwas always told thateverything heals with time, but what people really meant to say was that time just gave more space for anger to well inside until it spread, infecting every single cell in your body.
