“I know I’ve done it before.” Damian sounded agitated. “This was different. I froze, damn it! She started praying right before I pulled the trigger. She fucking prayed.” He slammed his fist down. The knife clanged loudly on the counter.
“I messed up, Rafael,” he continued. “I wanted him in the morgue, identifying his daughter’s dead body on her birthday. I know. I’ll figure something out.” He paused and raked his fingers through his hair. “I don’t give a fuck about that. He can hire every Goddamned bounty hunter in the world. I just want him to feel it. I want him to suffer. As far as Warren Sedgewick is concerned, his daughter is dead.” He turned and fixed his eyes on me. “And who knows? In twenty-one days, she just might be.”
He hung up and wiped the blood off the blade. Then he poured a glass of orange juice, propped me up, and held it to my lips.
I sipped it slowly, because my teeth were chattering. I was hot and cold and sweaty and dizzy, and there was still blood dripping off the counter and splattering onto the floor.
“Why don’t you just kill me?” I asked when I finished the juice. This was not some random kidnapping. This was a murder-turned-into-abduction. This was a screwed-up moment of weakness. This was a personal, targeted attack against my father. “What happens in twenty-one days?”
Damian didn’t respond. He finished cleaning up the bloody mess in the kitchen before examining my finger. Some pink was showing through the bandage and it throbbed like hell, but he seemed satisfied.
He left me on the floor, propped up against the cabinet and started cutting the potatoes. “Cold cuts and potato salad for lunch?”
DAMIAN SENSED SOMETHING HAD BROKEN inside of me, or maybe he felt a vague sense of remorse over what he had done. Whatever the reason, he no longer tied me up at night, although he still locked the door and kept the key on him while we slept. When I woke up, the door was always open. He left me something to eat on the same counter where he’d chopped off my finger, and although the knife was nowhere in sight, the threat of it was lodged deep in my brain.
I was free to go about the boat as I pleased, but I spent my time curled up on the settee across from the kitchen. Damian stayed up top, at the helm station, for the most part. Two people, forced into close proximity, day in and day out, can communicate volumes without uttering a single word. He reminded me of pain and darkness and a double-gauzed finger. I must have reminded him of botched-up vengeance and the monster within, because we both steered clear of each other, except for the times when we had to eat or sleep.
I didn’t ask him what my father had done. Whatever wrongdoing Damian was holding him accountable for had to be a lie or a misconception. Warren Sedgewick was the kindest, most generous soul in the world. He used his hotel connections to build dams and wells and water pumps for people in the most remote regions of the world, places that no one gave a damn about. He financed micro-loans and schools and food banks and medical aid. He rallied against injustices, treated his employees with respect and dignity, and he always, always made his daughter pancakes on Sunday.
When my father and I had first arrived in San Diego, they were Mickey Mouse pancakes with powdered sugar and loads of syrup. Then they turned into hearts and princess stuff. And even though I was all grown up, he refused to let me move out and held on to those traditions. Recently, he’d started making caricatures of my shoes and purses, big shapeless blobs of batter that he insisted I had to look at from different angles to appreciate. The condiments changed with my tastes—bananas with Nutella, fresh berries with brown sugar and cinnamon, shaved dark chocolate with orange zest. My father had the uncanny ability of tapping into my brain, pulling out all of the things I craved, and turning them into reality. I thought of lemon curd, swirled in mascarpone cheese, not because I wanted pancakes, but just so he could feel it—my topping of choice for the day—so he’d know I was alive.
Most of my bruises were healing, but my finger was still a red, raw reminder that a part of me was sealed in a plastic bag, iced over in the freezer. I peeled off my acrylic nails, biting and picking until I’d ripped into the nail bed—nine nail beds instead of ten—all cracked and ridged and covered with ugly, white flakiness. I thought it was an appropriate send-off for a fallen comrade. A nine-finger salute.
I missed the weight of my mother’s necklace on my skin. I missed my pinky nail. I missed my hair. I felt like all the bits that held me together were slowly coming unglued, falling off, piece by piece. I was disappearing, disintegrating like the rocks that get eaten by the sea.