Part 16 (1/2)
”Oh,” I say, smiling at her confidence.
She gracefully unfolds herself from her seat and walks to the front door with me following. Holding it open for me, I exit with her behind me locking up. The rain stopped before I came, so the steps and sidewalk are now drying. Parked in front of the house is a black Mercedes with that butler guy standing outside of it. He opens the back door for her, as she seats herself inside, then he shuts it behind her. He motions for me to get in on the other side of the backseat. Guess I don't warrant the royal treatment.
”Do you have reservations?” I ask her.
”We do not need them for where we are going,” she says while watching the pa.s.sing scenery out the window. Her perfume smells flowery but still subtle in the enclosed s.p.a.ce.
The butler, I guess driver too, stops in front of a hotel. ”We're eating at a hotel?”
”It has an adequate restaurant,” she informs me.
As long as I get more answers during dinner I could care less where we eat. Escorting her inside and through the lobby, there's a restaurant off to the right. It's a nice hotel, therefore a nice restaurant. Dimly lit, with votive candles flickering atop white tablecloths and sconces glowing on the walls, the rich aroma of fine cuisine makes me realize that I haven't eaten since lunch.
She was right about not needing a reservation and we're seated immediately by a pretty red-headed hostess wearing a conservative black dress. After she gives us our leather bound menus, I nonchalantly ask Marie, ”So, what else are you willing to let slip about Anna?”
She gives me a sly smile, practically purring, ”You are a bright boy, Gabriel Sanchez.”
”I like to think so,” I agree immodestly.
She looks thoughtful and her tone changes, ”What are your plans once, if, you find her? Do you mean to harm the girl?”
Her question throws me mentally off-balance for a moment. How much has Anna, I mean Annabelle, told her? Pretending interest in the menu, I deflect her question, ”Why would you ask that?”
She looks totally unconcerned as she's reading her own menu and responds, ”Because she killed your father.”
Dumbfounded that she knows about Miami, it takes me a moment to correct her, ”Murdered.”
She looks up at me sharply. ”Annabelle is not a murderer.”
”That's not the way it looked from where I was standing,” I tell her coldly.
”If Annabelle killed your father then it was for a good reason. She does not kill the innocent.” Before I can get a word in, she continues, ”But that is in the past. I repeat my question, why do you want to find Annabelle?”
I take a moment to think over my careful answer. ”I need closure.”
She studies me for a moment, gray eyes drilling into mine. ”You will not be able to do it.”
s.h.i.+fting uncomfortably under her attention, I attempt to throw her off. ”I don't know what you're talking about.”
The waiter arrives to bring us water in crystal goblets and ask if we need more time with the menus or would like anything else to drink. We dismiss him for now and he tells us in English that he'll return in a few minutes. When he leaves, she continues the conversation as if the interruption never occurred. ”You think to get revenge, young man. It will not work. You love her too deeply.”
Her words sting and I react impulsively. ”I hate her.” I don't even bother to hide the fact from her any longer, letting the chill enter my eyes and expression.
”You hate what she did. You do not hate the woman inside. That woman loves you.”
Leaning back in my chair, I cross my arms over my chest. ”I don't believe Anna is capable of love. I don't believe she ever loved me. She's a professional deceiver.”
”She is a young woman who was taught not to fall in love but did anyways. With you.” She says it like she's proud of Anna, like I should be grateful.
I lean forward in my seat and in a conspiratorial voice ask, ”How young? How old is she really?”
She lifts one elegant eyebrow. ”How old did she say she was?”
”Seventeen,” I answer automatically.
Marie looks smug. ”Well then, I guess she did not lie about everything. Although . . . .”
”Although . . . ,” I prompt her.
She smiles lightly, affection apparent in her voice, ”Today is her birthday.”
The news stuns me for a moment. The part of me that still loves her feels a brief flash of tenderness at the thought. Wis.h.i.+ng things had been different and we could have been celebrating it together at this very moment. Her eighteenth birthday. Of course, the part of me that hates her, wants her dead, thinks it would be fitting to end her life on her birthday.
Confused by my own thoughts, I mumble, ”So, she's only a few weeks younger than me. Funny, I'd convinced myself that maybe she was several years older.”
Marie has an understanding expression on her face. ”Yes, Annabelle has had more experiences than one so young should. Many people will never come close to understanding her world. Not even me.”
The part of me that loves her wishes it could understand. I'm hoping that part dies along with her. ”How did she become what she is?”
Marie shakes her head gracefully. ”That is her story to tell.”
I scowl, disgusted with myself. ”You know what? I don't even need to know the why of it.”
”She loves you very much, Gabriel,” Marie says softly, then sips some water from her gla.s.s.
”No. She doesn't.”
”She needs you.” Marie's tone has softened even more, but I ignore the plea in her eyes.
”She needs a bullet to that black heart of hers,” I mutter under my breath.
”Excuse me?” Marie asks, not hearing my quiet words.
”Nothing.”
The look she gives me is one of disappointment. ”You will just have to learn for yourself.”
”Where can I find her?” It doesn't hurt to ask. Not that I'd tell me if the roles were reversed.
Marie studies her nails for a long moment before saying, ”Room 404.”
”Room 404?” I'm wondering if I heard her right. ”In this hotel?” Can it be that easy?
She looks at me with a sneaky smile. ”That is what I said.”
Jumping out of my chair it falls backwards, landing with a thud on the ground. As the other diners look on in reaction to my clumsiness, I reach down to right it with trembling hands. ”I have to go.”