Dark Shadows (Gia Santella Crime Thrillers Book 11), Kristi Belcamino [ereader with dictionary .TXT] 📗

“Hey, no offense, but I came here for some solitude. Enjoy your dinner.”

I closed the door without waiting for his response. At the last second, I set the alarm. Then I stomped around the first floor of the villa, keeping to the back of the house so I didn’t have to see his car leaving.

After a few minutes, I peeked out a window to see if his car was gone. I couldn’t see, so I went to the front door and cracked it. An earsplitting, God-awful screech erupted, complete with strobe lights and blaring sirens. I slammed the door shut and punched in my code. The noise stopped, and I stood with my back against the door, heart pounding.

Jesus H. Christ.

Then I set the alarm again, reminding myself not to open the door again no matter what and headed back to the kitchen. There, I opened up another bottle of wine. Upstairs, I unearthed a silver cigarette case from my suitcase. It contained several neatly rolled joints.

Fortified with weed and wine, I went out back.

The entire area was lit up turquoise blue with hidden lights in the pool and in the thick tropical plants and trees. This time, I played Mexican music—narcocorridos. The songs were basically drug ballads written by famous singers and dedicated to—and about—drug lords. It was music that Nico had always loved. One artist had even written a narcocorrido about Nico.

I found that one on my phone and played it, tears streaming down my face.

It always made me cry when I listened to it, and that’s what I was going for. I was in a melancholy mood.

I drank wine, smoked weed, and sang along loudly to the narcocorridos as tears dripped down my face. Somewhere along the line I lay my head back on the chair and closed my eyes.

I woke later, shivering.

I’d fallen asleep in the thickly padded lounge chair. The music was still playing and the shimmering blue light from the pool was disorienting.

I trudged upstairs to my room and fell into the big plush bed, barely managing to pull the covers over me before I was asleep again.

The next morning, I woke up blinking at the bright sunlight pouring through the windows onto my bed. My head throbbed and my mouth was parched. When I rolled over, a wave of nausea overcame me. I froze, willing myself not to puke.

With my face buried in the pillow, I reached over to the nightstand, feeling for the bottle of water I’d seen there the night before. I had to sit up to drink it.

Once that feat was managed without barfing, I chugged about half of the bottle before realizing the only thing that was going to work was some hair of the dog.

I pulled on a leopard print bikini—swimming naked had quickly lost its novelty—and headed downstairs, grabbing an extra-large pair of dark sunglasses before I went. In the kitchen, I dug through every cupboard until I found what I was looking for—the real booze.

I grabbed a bottle of tequila and headed for the pool.

The Mexican narcocorridos were still playing through the speakers, somehow still connected to my phone and playing on repeat. But I was no longer in the mood.

I dialed up some Marvin Gaye, uncapped the tequila and took a big swig and then another. I suddenly felt a little better. I lay back down on the lounge chair and slept for an hour, dreaming of the 1970s and wishing I’d been alive during that time.

I woke sweating and thirsty. I grabbed a bottle of tequila and another glass filled with ice water and headed for the pool. I sank into the refreshing turquoise water, tipped the bottle back, and let the cool liquid slosh into my mouth and over my face, finishing it in a few desperate gulps.

The rest of the day was a lot like the day before. I drank and nibbled on cheeses and salamis and grapes and let the Mediterranean sun beat down on me as I listened to music and read. I picked up Orwell’s Down and Out in Paris and London and spent most of the day re-reading the book that I’d once loved and still found enjoyable.

The sun beat down on me and warmed my bones, but I wasn’t sure it could reach my heart.

I felt nothing.

I’d expected to spend at least part of this time in solitude grieving. I thought I would mourn Nico. Or at least mourn the life I’d led with him and Rose.

But I felt cold inside. Or maybe not cold. Just numb.

At dusk, I decided to switch up my alcohol choices and went for a bottle of red wine. I decided that I needed some Edith Pilaf to match the vibe of the wine and the Orwell book.

It was a good choice. Lying on the lounge chair wrapped in a soft blanket, the wine warmed me as I sang softly along to the strains of Pilaf’s voice.

Soon, I stumbled up to bed.

On the third day, spent the same as the first two, I was nearly sober when the sun set. I’d cut back a little on the booze and drank more water and ate some fruit and vegetables I’d found in a basket on the kitchen counter.

I sat in the lounge chair drinking sparkling water as the sky turned from tangerine to purple to velvet navy. It was beautiful and I’d spent three days doing exactly what I’d planned to do, so what was the antsy feeling I had?

I realized I was restless. Bored as fuck, actually.

And lonely.

I stood, letting the blanket fall onto the patio, and headed upstairs.

It was strange. I didn’t know myself anymore. I’d spent the last four years caring for Nico. I’d lost sight of who I was when I wasn’t a caretaker.

Even though it had made me feel guilty as hell at the time, I’d daydreamed of days like this, when the only thing I had to