I remember I’d felt angry at the gesture, my father giving this stranger a gift, an expensive gift I’m not sure we could afford all the while dismissing my concerns. Embarrassed even by them.

I’d slapped the box into Santiago’s hand and told him off. Told him how much I hated his school. Did I tell him I hated him, too? I don’t remember. I’d been a lot like Eva then.

I look down at the box now and trace the letters embossed on the lid. I open it, and inside, cradled in a cushion of black satin, is a gold fountain pen. I lift it out and set the box aside. It’s beautiful. Absolutely exquisite. I wonder if my mother knew my father had bought such an expensive gift for Santiago. Not for her. Not for any of his own children.

Turning it over in my hand, I read the inscription.

To Santiago, you make me proud, son.

Son.

My throat closes up, and tears burn my eyes.

Son.

Is Santiago taunting me now? Showing me how vile he is? How wicked? That he could murder a man to whom he’d been like a son. Because that’s what he’d been to my father. He’d been more of a son to him than Abel had. More beloved than his own blood.

The realization is upsetting enough but to think that Santiago, knowing this, could murder him is beyond that.

But then I consider an alternative. Is this another manipulation of his? Something to show me he couldn’t possibly have murdered a man he loved. Is this supposed to show me that somehow, after all these months of hate, these years of planning his elaborate vengeance, Santiago realized his love for my father? Is it supposed to make me believe that he couldn’t kill him?

He must think me even more stupid than I realized.

I hate him.

I have to hate him.

But a part of me is breaking, too. Because no matter what I want, or what I claim, I don’t. When he climbed into bed with me earlier, I didn’t pull away. I curled into him. I leaned into his warmth. His strength. His blood-soaked hands. It took all I had to steel myself against him.

Because he is a master manipulator. And I cannot love him.

Determined, I get off the bed, and I hurl both pen and box across the room leaving a divot in the wall. I’m glad for it. I need to remember his violence. His duplicity. I need to remember his hate. Remember that his need for vengeance far outweighs any feeling for me.