Turbulence wakes me some time later. Outside my window, the sky is painted with magenta and orange strokes, and fluffy white clouds stretch below us, as far as the eye can see. The screen on the back of the seat in front of me says we’re forty minutes from landing in Barcelona.
I didn’t dream, but now that I’m back in the land of the living, images explode inside my head. Converse girl curled in a fetal position on the hard basement floor. My palm squeezed around the cold gun. Lazaro collapsed on the ground, thick blood seeping from beneath him.
Maybe I did manage to kill him.
This thought calms me. The calm reaches inside of me and takes up residence inside my body for the first time in months.
Each morning I woke up beside Lazaro marked the beginning of another endless day. I’d eat my breakfast, choke on my lunch, and have a panic attack or two in the hours leading up to Lazaro’s return.
I never knew if he’d bring someone with him that day or not. He didn’t operate on a regular schedule, because the business of the clan doesn’t have one either. It’s all chaos, governed by blood and white powder, and just when you think you’ve learned the rules, they change.
There were ten of them. An average of one per week since the day after our wedding. I don’t know most of their names, but I’ll remember their faces forever.
I stretch my cold, aching feet and rub my palms along my arms to get some blood flowing to my extremities. I resist the urge to get up to use the bathroom and peek at Converse girl. She’s fine. She said she can get picked up from the airport, which means she must have friends or family in Spain. Was her accent Spanish or Italian? Now that I think about it, it might have been either. If she knows I’m on her plane, she’ll only get freaked out.
The light flicks on, and the captain announces we’re about to begin our descent. As the plane fills with sounds of seatbelts being fastened and sleepy conversations, the clouds part to reveal land and the unmistakable glitter of the sea.
When I step off the plane onto the jet bridge, I’m hit with an oppressive wave of heat. The signs are written in English and Spanish, and I follow them to customs. I just want to get out of the restricted zone so that I can figure out my next move.
I’ve been to Spain once for a wedding in Seville. Carolyn, someone I knew from high school. The only reason Papà allowed me to go was because her father was a senator. It was four days of drinking, eating tapas, and lounging in beautiful palaces built for old kings.
My brother, Vince, was my chaperone, but he didn’t stick around much after another female guest caught his eye. I wasn’t about to do anything stupid, anyway, not when I was already engaged to Lazaro. I was nervous about marrying him, but it’s not like I could have said no to Papà when he told me Lazaro was to be my husband. As soon as the words had left his mouth, it was assumed to be a done deal. Any hint of disagreement would have been met with harsh discipline.
The customs agent stamps my passport and hands it back to me. “Welcome to Spain,” he says and waves me through.
The Barcelona airport is huge and sprawling. I exchange my dollars to euros, get myself a pastry and an espresso, and sit down at a small table in the cafe.
I need to keep moving so that I’m harder to track down, but where should I go? I don’t have a phone anymore, so I can’t even research anything online.
There are two giant screens above me that rotate through what appears to be an endless list of flights. I scan them over as I chew, and just as I manage to get through the entire list once, a group of young British men sit down at the table beside me.
“I can’t wait to see Solomun,” one of them says excitedly. “He’ll be playing tomorrow night at Revolvr, and everyone says it’s the wildest party.”
His friend nudges his shoulder. “Did you forget? We already promised Addie we’d see her at Amnesia. She’s working there for the summer as a server.”
This elicits a chorus of hoots from his companions. “Are you still trying to get with that chick?” one of them exclaims. “Forget it, mate. She’s in fucking Ibiza, she’s not thinking about you.”
I take a sip of my espresso and glance back to the board.
There’s a flight to Ibiza in an hour and a half.
The only thing I know about Ibiza is what everyone else does. It’s an island known for hardcore partying. Like the European version of Vegas, I suppose. A place where people constantly come and go. A place it might be easy for a girl to get lost in…
I drum my fingertips against the edge of the table. What have I got to lose? It’s not like I have any better ideas for where to go.
Twenty minutes later, I’m at the gate.
The rest of my journey is a blur. After I disembark the plane in Ibiza, my mind registers a series of snapshots—the row of taxis at the terminal, the billboards advertising DJs along the road, the palm trees that line the sidewalks.
The driver takes me to Sant Antoni de Portmani—a town he says is far cheaper than downtown Ibiza. I’m so tired that when I finally get out of the car, I don’t think twice about walking into the first hostel I find.
The tiny lobby smells like incense and wood. Photos of the island cover most of the walls, and there are shelves everywhere with candles and travel books for sale. A jug of water sits on a tiny table with a few stacked cups by its side.
Whenever I’d travel with my family, we’d always stay in five-star hotels. Shiny marble floors, high ceilings, concierges in crisply pressed uniforms, and chocolates on our pillows. I remember getting picky about the stupidest things—the thread count on the sheets and the firmness of the mattress.
Now, I’m so exhausted, I’d be fine sleeping on a wooden palette.
I ask for a private room for two nights. That should be enough for me to figure out what’s next.
The receptionist eyes me curiously while she types some stuff on her computer. I’m worried she’ll ask me questions I can’t answer, but besides asking to see my passport, she holds her tongue. What are the chances the tech geniuses Papà has on his payroll will be able to track me down in the hostel’s system? It’s a long shot, even for them.
“Here you go.” She hands me my receipt and a key attached to a simple metal keychain. Engraved on it is the number five. “You’re all the way at the end of the hall. Last door on the right.”
“Thanks.”
Inside, my room is simple but clean. I collapse on the bed and try to take a nap, but even though I’m deathly tired, sleep won’t come. The anxiety of not knowing what I’m going to do here gnaws at me. My wallet is one hundred euros lighter after paying for my room, and I have no way to replenish my cash.
I sit back up and catch a whiff of myself. Jesus, I stink. I’m definitely not going to find a job if I look like I haven’t showered in two days. Dragging myself into the bathroom, I freshen up the best I can and then head out to buy myself some toiletries and a few changes of clothes.
The town unfurls around me like a colorful tapestry. It’s a bit run down, but the shore and the azure-blue water more than make up for it.
I walk around for a bit, but as the afternoon creeps in, the dial on the sun turns way up. It’s incredibly hot. The humidity makes my skin sticky, and the money I stuffed inside my bra because I didn’t want to leave anything at the hostel is giving me an itch. I take most of it out and move it to my purse.
There’s a small shopping area the receptionist recommended and marked with an X on my tourist map. She said I’d find whatever I needed there, so I make my way over.
I pick up three tops, a pair of shorts, a light dress, a pair of sneakers, some underwear, and a backpack to hold it all. After I pay for everything, I stop by the entrance of the store and do a quick count of the money left in my purse. One thousand eight hundred and thirty-four euros, plus the little bit left in my bra. It’s fine. I’ll make it work.
By now, my family must know that I’m gone. It’s been nearly twenty-four hours. If Lazaro’s dead, the maid must have found him. If he’s alive, he would have told Papà what happened.
As I start walking back to the hostel, images of Lazaro splayed on the floor flash inside my mind. I don’t feel an ounce of pity for him. I don’t really feel anything at all.
A shiver runs through me. That’s wrong, isn’t it? I should have some feelings about the fact that I might have murdered my husband. What if something inside of me is permanently damaged? Is this my punishment? Being condemned to live the rest of my life numb? Unable to feel normal human emotions and incapable of empathy or love?
I helped Converse girl. That has to count for something. When I saw her there, so young and terrified, I couldn’t do it. Yet that one act doesn’t make up for the other people I harmed. Not even close. I could have chosen to help any one of them, and I didn’t.
A body collides into me hard enough to push the air out of my lungs.
“What the hell?”
All I see is a whirl of black clothing and a flash of a male face.
“Disculpe!” he says, and then he’s running away from me.
It takes me a grand total of three seconds to catch onto what just happened.
My purse is gone.
I break out into a sprint in my flimsy flats with my new backpack bouncing painfully against my lower back and shout after the thief, but the distance between us only grows.
He’s faster than me.
Passersby stop and stare, some even try to grab the man, but none of them succeed. Eventually, I stop, my breath coming out in raged pants. My hands press against my thighs, and whatever bubble of hope I had left bursts.
My money is gone.
I feel sick.
When I get back to the hostel and tell the receptionist what happened, she’s sympathetic.
“Do you want to file a police report?” she asks.
“Do you think it will help?”
She winces apologetically. “Honestly? No. In my five years of working here, I’ve seen about a dozen guests get robbed, and only one managed to get her purse back. Empty.”
I sigh and lean against the counter. Of course, I can’t go to the police. I can’t show them my passport, which I still have because I moved it into my backpack. Why the hell didn’t I do that with the cash?
I’m left with a few crumpled bills inside my bra. What will I do when it runs out?
Everything is going wrong.
I’m close to tears when the door that leads to the women’s dorm room opens and two young women walk out. They’re dressed in short shorts and graphic T-shirts. One of them, a tall pretty blonde with big blue eyes, gives me a pitying look.
“We overheard what happened,” she says. “That’s so shitty.”
Her friend nods in agreement. “I got robbed last year in Barcelona. They got my ID, my phone, everything. It was the worst.” She tucks a strand of dark, curly hair behind her ear. She’s shorter than the blonde, and her green T-shirt says You can be whatever you want.
“I should have been more careful,” I say. “I dropped my guard.”
“How about we get you a drink?” the blonde asks. “We were just about to go to a bar down this street.”
Alcohol. Yes, that sounds far better than the other thing I’m considering—jumping under the wheels of a truck.
I give them a tired smile. “Sure, that’ll be nice.”
They introduce themselves while we walk. The blonde is Astrid, and the brunette is Vilde.
“What’s your name?” Vilde asks.
Crap. The receptionist knows my real name, so I can’t give them something totally random in case they use it in front of her, but the less people know my real name the better. “It’s Ale,” I say. Good enough. In theory, it could be an unusual nickname for Valentina. “Where are you from?”
“Sweden.” Astrid pulls open a door to what appears to be a bar. Above the door is a sign that reads Caballo Blanco. “What about you? Are you here on vacation?”
I really should have prepared my answers ahead of time instead of giving them off the cuff. “I’m from Canada. Just travelling around for a few months. What about you?”
“We’re seasonal workers,” Vilde says as we take our seats at a free table. “We just got hired last week.”
“What kind of work do you do?” I ask after a server takes our order for a pitcher of sangria.
“I’m a dancer,” Astrid says. “And Vilde is a bartender.” A wide grin spreads across her face. “It’s been a dream of ours for a while to spend a season working in Ibiza.”
“It’s work, but it’s also a lot of fun,” Vilde says.
My mood improves a tiny bit when the sangria arrives. I didn’t drink much before getting married to Lazaro, but during our marriage, I worked my way up to a bottle of wine a day. I throw the entire glass back in two gulps and pray the alcohol kicks in quickly. I need something to take the edge off.
“Do you think I could get a job here?” I ask as Astrid refills my glass. “I’m not picky. That guy took most of my money, and if I don’t figure out how to get more, I don’t know what I’ll do. I need to save up a bit before I can go anywhere else.”
Astrid groans and shakes her head. “What a nightmare. Can’t believe that asshole ruined your trip. But listen, there’s always work for pretty girls in Ibiza.”
My spine straightens. “You think so?
“The clubs hire a ton of people for high season, and it’s just getting started.”
“I can’t dance, and the only drink I know how to make is a martini,” I say.
“Please, you’ll find a job.” Astrid pats my shoulder. “One look at you, and the club managers are going to be eating out of your hand.”
“She’s right,” Vilde says. “They go through people like crazy, because a lot of the workers party too much and just stop showing up. They’re always hiring. Come to our club tonight. We work at Revolvr. We’d put in a good word, but since we’re so new, it won’t count for much. You should just try talking to one of the managers.”
What do I have to lose? I don’t have much to offer, but I’m willing to learn.
There’s another problem though. “I don’t know if I’m legally allowed to work here.”
Astrid tsks. “You’ll find a way around it.”
“I had a friend from Argentina who worked here three summers in a row under the table,” Vilde says. “It’s not uncommon here.”
Working illegally in Ibiza—wow, life sure does take sharp turns. But if I can get a job without documents, I’ll be practically untraceable.
“It’s worth a try,” I say.
Astrid gives me an encouraging grin. “Get there around one,” she says before laughing at my puzzled expression. “The party goes all night and all morning here.”
Sounds like I’m about to become a creature of the night. It could be a good thing.
After all, in the dark there are more places to hide.
