Selective/Memory: The "Depth of Emotion" Book 2 (The Depth of Emotion) (33 page)

Gazing at her watch, the doctor smiled, announcing, “Unfortunately, for today, our time is finished…”

Marisol slipped down the stairs, having given thought to her project. The opportunity would soon present itself for her plan to come to fruition, and she realized the time had come for an independent strategy with regard to Marchelle.

“Where are you hiding? I know you’re here,” she called as she walked toward the kitchen.

She opened the wine cooler and selected a bottle that pleased her. Within moments, Marchelle appeared from whatever corner she’d silently tucked herself into. Though never turning to acknowledge her, Marisol issued a directive.

“We need to talk,” she said, opening the bottle, knowing that her sister was listening. “I have some things I must discuss with you.”

As Marisol carried the glass and bottle to the table, she waved Marchelle over and indicated that she’d like her to sit.

“I asked you to bring the items from the trunk into the house. Did you do that?” she asked.

“Yes,” the woman quietly answered.

Sitting across from her sister, Marchelle gave her the full attention she required. Simultaneously loving and fearing her twin kept Marchelle in a perpetually anxious state.

“You are aware that no one knows you exist, aren’t you?” Marisol asked, rhetorically. “They think you are me when they see you. That is the reason I brought you here from Columbia—to help me when I needed to be in two places at once.”

Marisol directed the purposeful statement in her most superior tone to cultivate her sister’s mind, making it fertile for intimidation. Always effective in this goal, she gloated inwardly, observing Marchelle’s security diminish, bit by bit.

The poor woman nervously chewed at her lip and lowered her eyes to the table as she nodded her reply. Marisol licked her plump lips, satisfied with her response, and getting slightly excited, as a predator would with its prey.

“I paid someone a large sum of money to bring you here, to me—
for me
—You aren’t legal,
do you understand
?” she snarled at Marchelle.

Again, her sister nodded her understanding and Marisol continued with her badgering.

“The items you brought into the house for me—the tools, rope and the gun—what did you do with them?” she queried.

Turning away from the intense glare of her sister, she took a moment to gather her thoughts, and get her voice, before responding.

“I placed them all in the cabinet, in the kitchen, just like you told me,” she answered.

“Good girl,” Marisol cooed. “Now,” she said, petting her sister’s head, “I want you to put the gun in the glove compartment of the car. Keep it there until I tell you otherwise.”

Marchelle’s face drew into a look of uncertainty and puzzlement.

“Why?” she asked as she uneasily rubbed her forehead in question.

“Don’t question me!” Marisol stormed. “Do it because I said so!” she ordered.

Instinctively, Marchelle’s shoulders lowered with the outburst, as she cowered under the power of her sister’s anger.

A few sips of wine and a few moments later, Marisol dismissed the woman’s question and calmly continued as if nothing had transpired.

“You must keep it there—in the glove compartment—for your protection,” she said as the other woman queasily came to full attention, once again, astonished at the remark.

Marisol could sense Marchelle initiating a question, but she caught herself before she was foolish enough to voice the inquiry.

“If anyone ever stops you,” Marisol warned, “they will send you back to Columbia—immediately.”

Marisol ignored her sister’s rising terror and concentrated instead on amusing herself with the wine glass. She thought it might be fun to add in a little more fear.

“I have it on good authority,” she said, smiling in her sister’s face, “that they want you for the murder of Papi.”

“
What?!
But I didn’t…” a stricken Marchelle spat out, but stopped at Marisol’s rapid glare.

“I know that,” Marisol soothed her, “but they don’t!”

Marisol added a bit of terror to maneuver and mold Marchelle’s thoughts.

“They will tell you anything to get you to believe them; that is what they do,” she continued. “Trust me—they are
all
liars. You cannot believe anything they say to you. That is why I am telling you this. If they
ever
stop you, you must defend yourself or they will take you,” Marisol said, inflating Marchelle’s fear as her impatience escalated.

She needed to assure herself that Marchelle wouldn’t prove to be a complication in her game.

“Do you understand what I am saying to you, Marchelle?!”

Although the two were almost identical in appearance, their dispositions were as different as positive and negative. For as evil, narcissistic, and self-serving as Marisol could be, Marchelle was kind, loving, and sought only to love her sister and to make her life as easy as possible.

She examined Marisol, disbelieving that someone so beautiful could be ordering her to do such an ugly thing, unless she was certain it was for her own benefit and protection.

Impatient for an answer, Marisol yelled at her. “Marchelle!
Tu me entiendes
?!”

Although not wanting or willing to see the evil in the black heart that sat within inches of her, Marchelle understood her meaning all too well.

“
Si. Yo entiendo;
I understand,” she whispered through trembling lips.

Exhaling in confidence that her pet would obey the latest command, Marisol lifted the glass to her lips and drained its contents. Although she had spent a considerable amount of time training Marchelle to mimic her every move, she mentally saluted herself for not ever allowing the woman to comprehend more English.

Declan needed something to look forward to. Driving to the little shop, Aria had occupied his every thought for the entire trip. The most challenging thing he had done since being with her in Hawaii was attempting to commit every moment of their time together to his memory. Months had gone by when all of his concentration was exhausted with negative things. The daily agony of therapy mixed with bitter, fragmented memories had left him emotionally and physically bankrupt. His impoverished spirit was in a downward spiral without her. He held to the hope that they’d be together again. Although he had almost undermined his own happiness, he felt he might be getting a second chance.

Life before her was frenzied, self-centered, and out of control. Life with her fortified him, strengthened him, and preserved the small amount of moral compass that his mother had taught him. He had never met anyone quite like her. He wanted her back—but he also wanted her safe.

Walking up to
Catherine with a “C”
, he was confident that he’d find a token to give her that would express his thoughts. Something she’d like, and on which to concentrate his focus when this plan seemed to wear thin on his nerves. He could look at it and have hope for the future. It would be a symbol of getting her back…of starting their new life—together.

He entered the shop feeling more optimistic than he had in quite some time. This small piece of jewelry would remind him that everything would turn out just fine—at least that was his intention.

“Can I help you find something?” the attentive woman asked as she approached him.

Reaching out her hand, she offered an introduction.

“Hi. I’m Cathy,” she said with a smile.

He took her hand, lightly shaking it.

“It’s nice to meet you. Declan Sinclair,” he replied, his solid baritone thick and strong. “I’m trying to find something particular…unusual even. It’s for someone special.”

She smiled, alleviating any distress he might have had that they’d be successful in the search.

“Tell me a few things about her—about what she likes,” she said. “That’s always a good place to start.”

“Hmm…she’s really easy to please,” he said as optimistic thoughts began to form and return. “She likes coffee, and animals, and decorating…”

He laughed, then a memory—a vision—took complete authority over all thoughts. He relished the memory of curls fluttering in the breeze.

“She loves the ocean…” he said, directing his thoughts to Aria at the edge of the water.

Without hesitation, Cathy said,
“I have just the thing.”

She took a few steps to a small case, and he heard the lock unclick. On a soft cloth, she carried a small necklace to him. Warmth radiated in his chest as she laid it before him, and he knew it was perfect.

“It’s called an
Open Heart
necklace. Jane Seymour designs them. This one is from the
Wave Collection
. This particular one symbolizes the change of life; its joys, heartbreaks, and challenges. It was made with the idea that you connect and share life’s ups and downs, and that you grow from them.

Cathy looked to him for direction in his choice.

“Would this piece symbolize anything to her, or mean something to the two of you? Do you think it would be something that she’d like?”

The tiny necklace meant so much. It was perfect for Aria. It symbolized everything—the place they loved, who they were, and would be, and the blue…well the blue reminded him of her eyes.

“I’ll take it,” he said.

After going to The Studio to check on things, Blake stopped by. “Where’s Declan?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Carter said, handing him a beer. “He said he had somewhere to stop off on the way home.”

“I brought your tux,” Blake said, handing it to Carter. “Declan ordered it.”

Carter unzipped the covering. “This is nice. Just leave it to my brother to make me look good.”

“He probably didn’t want you to embarrass him!” Blake said, resonating with mischief.

“Yeah, right!” Carter said defensively as he hung the garment on the back of the door.

Blake followed Carter into the kitchen, bumping into the large green plant on the way. The huge pot tilted over, contents of black dirt and fertilizer carelessly spilling across the hardwood floor.

“Shit! Sorry, man. That thing’s a monster!” he said, pulling the heavy container upright.

“Don’t worry about it,” Carter assured him. “It’s a pain. I think he holds on to it because Aria liked it.”

He went to the kitchen, coming back with an old broom and dustpan. After sweeping all the clumpy dirt into the dustpan, he carried it to the trashcan.

Blake followed him, carrying both of their drinks.

“What do you think about them? Declan and Aria?” Blake asked, changing the subject as he mindlessly sat the drinks on the table.

“I don’t know,” Carter admitted. “I haven’t really given it much thought with all the Marisol shit and with this benefit being tomorrow. I do think she’s good for him, though.”

He threw the contents of the pan into the can and tied up the bag. Taking a seat across from Blake, he stretched back and pressed the bottle to his lips.

“I really hope they can work it out,” he confessed. “I think they’re good together.”

“Me, too. He
was
good with her,” Blake added. “What about you? Women, I mean. Have you dated anybody since your wife?”