A Fierce and Subtle Poison - Samantha Mabry Page 0,43

followed.

It was only after we were both outside and walking through the drizzle on near-empty streets that I asked how she knew where to find me.

“I usually find the people I’m looking for in one of two places: in church or at a bar. And apparently you don’t have a cell phone.”

“I do back in Houston.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “But I never bring it to the island. What it is you wanted to talk to me about?”

“Marisol Reyes.”

“Okay. But I don’t know what I could say that I haven’t already said before.”

Sighing, she stuffed her hands in the pockets of her coat. “I knew you’d say that, and I know this must be difficult for you. So, here it is. As you probably know, the official story is that Marisol drowned. Aside from being washed up the way she was, the autopsy report came back saying that there was a large amount of water in her lungs.”

The detective paused, giving me the chance for that to sink in. From where we were, the music from the festival was rising into the night sky. I could hear the sharp, low pops of drums.

“And?”

“And . . . ” She looked down at the cobblestones and furrowed her brow. “I’m not so sure about that. At the station, you said something about her neck and face being covered in sores.”

I stopped and turned to face the detective. She was short, shorter than I remembered, but in that moment she commanded space like someone twice her size. Her jaw was clamped tight as if her mother taught her that if she couldn’t say anything nice, she shouldn’t say anything at all.

“I said what?”

Detective Lopez reached into her coat, pulled out a small pad of paper, and flipped through its pages.

“Yeah. Here it is.” She tapped a red nail against the pad. “When asked to describe the condition of her body, you said, and I quote, ‘I could only see parts of her—like her neck, throat, and face and fingertips, but they had sores on them, like the kind you’d get from rubbing up against poison ivy or something.’ ” She glanced up, cocking her eyebrow. “You don’t remember saying that?”

I resisted the urge to scratch at my own skin. “No. I was kind of disoriented that night.”

“Believe me, Lucas, I understand,” she said. “And normally, this wouldn’t be a big deal. I mean, bodies in the ocean come in contact with all manner of natural and unnatural objects, and when they wash up they’re typically bloated and nearly unrecognizable.”

In the attempt to erase yet another sudden, unsettling vision of a dead Marisol, I slammed my eyes shut and pressed my palms into my eyelids. We were now just a block away from the festival. The drums were louder; their sound bounced against the sides of my skull.

“Why are you telling me this?” I asked.

“Yes.” I opened my eyes and swiveled my head around to see the detective stabbing the air with her pointer finger. “Good question.”

Together, we rounded the corner and entered the Plaza de Armas. It was exploding with life—a far cry from the hushed and nearly vacant church we’d recently left. There had to have been hundreds of people there, all shouting and laughing over the sounds of clinking beer bottles and drumbeats. Rows of white string lights hung overhead. Pink and purple paper lanterns tilted in the breeze. Over by the fountain, near where I thought I’d seen Marisol on the night of the hurricane, four women were dancing a bomba to the beat of the drums. They clutched the folds of their long, full banana-yellow skirts, exposing their expanse of fabric. They stomped and twirled and arched their backs the way bullfighters do when they strut for the crowd and taunt their bulls.

A little girl about Celia’s age ran in front of us. She held a red ribbon high above her head. It fluttered in the air like her own personal comet.

Detective Lopez leaned in so I could hear her over the crowd noise. “I wanted you to know that, as far as I’m concerned, Marisol’s case is still open. Same goes for Sara Fikes. Both of the girls were found in the same general area, and they were in a similar physical condition. What you said that night—about their bodies—got me thinking these cases might be more than your standard-issue drownings.”

Mara Lopez paused again, this time to size me up with her clever, searching eyes.