August, 2012

Dawn hadn't even broken when Ingrid drove out of the garage, en route to New York City. She dropped her abuelita with friends in Harlem, had a second breakfast with her third coffee and, at seven AM sharp, parked her car at the end of a bridge connecting Rikers Island to the borough of Queens. From there, she hopped on the bus shuttling visitors onto the island and followed the other passengers as they got off and headed for the registration building.

It took forever to have her ID verified, undergo the security check and fill out some paperwork so she could register as visitor. Then another shuttle trip followed, more security checks and more stale waiting until, finally, her name was called and she came face to face with Leon Ortega.

It was impossible for Ingrid to remember what she'd expected. But as she sat on an uncomfortable plastic chair across from this stranger in his dull inmate robes, Ingrid realised how much wishful thinking had been involved in the process.

For a split second, she thought he looked evil. Thought she could see murder in his eyes and blood on his skin.

Then she blinked once and dispelled the notion. It couldn't be. Abuelita's son couldn't be a murderer. He might not have been fully innocent, but he was not some vicious killer, either. The darkness in his eyes was just a manifestation of his lifelong suffering. And his skin – brown, like hers, except a much deeper hue – heavily tattooed rather than bloodied.

"Hello," she said, her voice small and her lips barely smiling. "I'm... My name is Ingrid." She lifted her hand into a tentative wave, rather than stretching it out for a handshake, unsure whether she was allowed to touch him.

His smouldering amber gaze made her shiver.

"I know." His baritone startled her. "It said in the letter."

Ingrid gulped. "Right. Well, um... then you know Sofia is very sorry she couldn't come see you herself, so I... I offered to come check up on you instead. So how... how are you?"

A half-shrug. "Well enough."

"You do... look good."

The faintest of smirks across his mouth. "I do?"

Ingrid straightened up in her seat. "Yes, abue – " She froze and cleared her throat. He frowned. "Sofia will be happy to hear."

"Were you going to say abuela just now?"

Ingrid blushed and stared down at her fidgeting fingers. He wouldn't hurt her if she offended his mother by mistake, would he? Not in there, he couldn't. Still, she would have felt much better telling the truth.

"Abuelita," she whispered. "Your mother, she... she suggested that I call her that. It's just a term of endearment."

"Why? What is she to you? Or you to her? I thought she was only supposed to be the cleaning lady."

Her head snapped up. His questions stoked the fire in her eyes.

"She's the housekeeper," Ingrid corrected, "and my friend. She's not... just the cleaning lady. I actually care for your mother, you know? She volunteered to stand in for my grandma after she learned I'd lost her as a child."

"I'm sorry," Leon said and sounded sincere.

"Don't mention it." She tugged on the hem of her skirt, briefly remembering how the guard had felt her up all over, including between her legs and into her bra. Ingrid pressed her thighs closer together. "Is there, um..." She wouldn't look up from her lap. "Anything you want me to tell your mother?"

For a minute, Ingrid could only hear the chatter noise in the background, from the other inmates and their visitors. She raised her head. Leon looked pensive, fixing her with his immovable, unreadable gaze.

"Tell her I love her," he said in the end. "And I'm sorry. And I miss her. And thank you."

Ingrid pursed her lips into something resembling a smile. "I'm sure she'll say there's nothing to thank her for. She's your mother, after all."

A corner of his mouth lifted into a wicked grin. "No, thank you is for you. Ingrid."

The way he said her name made her tense up and shudder.

"Thanks for coming all the way out here to see a stranger. Thanks for looking after my mother and going through all the shit I know these fuckers put you through just so you could give her some peace of mind."

Ingrid started, her breath catching in her throat. Something glinted in his eyes. Something malicious.

"I owe you, Ingrid. I'll never forget... you."

Her heartbeat quickened. "No, not at all. It... it was my pleasure, really."

"I know that's not true. But thank you. I think you should go."

Leon called for a guard and stood up. Held out his hand. Ingrid looked from it to his stony face. She scrambled to her feet and took it, reluctant. He put his other hand over hers and kept it there for a moment. His thumb brushed her wrist.

"Did they touch you?" he hissed out of the blue, his lips barely moving.

She swallowed the knot that had formed in her throat. "What?..."

He inched forward. "If you come again, check who. Then tell me. Nametags. Remember them."

Ingrid withdrew her hand and rubbed it on her skirt. The guard came and took Leon away.

Shortly past noon, under a merciless sun, Ingrid got into her car and cried. She didn't know why. But she wiped her tears off, forced a smile on and went to fetch her abuelita. Ingrid would have to tell her a happy story.

November , 2017

Ingrid and Ian drowned themselves in work over the coming weeks. Cait had quit spending her weekends at the townhouse, very rarely dropping by for dinner, concentrating most of her free time instead on aiding Ingrid on her ghost quest.

One Friday afternoon mid-November, as the weather was getting colder, Cait texted Ingrid while she was at the office and invited her over. Her flatmates were out, Caitlin explained, and she was ordering Italian food. It was an offer Ingrid couldn't refuse and this time, she'd make sure to buy some good wine.

"You go on without me," Ingrid told Pri and Ian as she was packing up for the day. "I'm going over to Cait's. Might stay the night with her."

A shadow passed across Ian's face, but he said nothing.

"How are you BFFs all of a sudden?" Priyanka enquired with a raised eyebrow.

"No need to be jealous, princess," Ingrid winked. "We'll just be chilling out. If anything more exciting occurs to us, we'll be sure to let you know."

"I'm appeased, then," Pri concluded and the women exchanged kisses on the cheek. "I'll... see you when I see you, I suppose. You coming, Ian?"

"You go on," he said, "there's just a couple of things."

"Sure. I'll wait for you at the car."

"Alright."

With Priyanka out of the room, Ian approached the table where Ingrid was getting her stuff in order and sat down beside her. She didn't pay him any mind.

"Will she ever forgive me?" he wondered aloud. "Will you ever forgive me?"

Ingrid zipped up her laptop bag and balanced the broad strap on her shoulder. "Jury's out. Have a good evening, Ian."

She hefted her handbag and strode outside, scribbling a mental note not to forget the wine. It ended up being the only thing she could think of as she navigated the rush hour traffic and squeezed into a packed subway train. Like the North Star providing solace to sailors out at sea, the Italian dinner guided Ingrid through the suffocating crowd, kept her from giving in to thoughts that would have eroded her sanity.

Learning about her abuelita's death had made Ingrid realise how much baggage she'd pretended she didn't have all these years. She'd faked strength and a tough front until she'd made it into a hardened, heartless woman and she couldn't even remember how to be anyone else. If she'd ever been anyone else.

Oskar had cracked that wall a year ago. Oskar, who'd dragged her up to her feet when she'd tumbled into a deep, dark hole. Oskar, who'd fallen in love with her despite all the shit she'd put him through. Oskar, whose heart she'd broken into pieces, who'd come crawling back to her after she'd kicked him to the curb, who –

"I'm sorry, how much was that?" Ingrid dug around her handbag for her wallet after the cashier scanned her bottles of red. "Here you go. Thanks."

She cradled the bottles in one arm and jogged across the street, skipping up the steps into Caitlin's building. The smell of pasta permeated the front hall of the flat and Ingrid breathed it in. Cait prepared the plates while Ingrid popped the wine open and brought glasses to the little table in the kitchen.

"If I ever get married," Caitlin mumbled with her mouth full, "I want an Italian husband."

Ingrid laughed. "I'll drink to that!" They raised their glasses of wine and clinked them. "I'm sure we can find you one somewhere if you want it so bad."

"Nah, I'm good for now." Cait stabbed at her pasta. "So how's work?"

"Work's great," Ingrid replied. "There's a shitload of assholes at every corner, but such is life. How about you – how's the Brie-Carol situation?"

Cait rolled her eyes. "Ugh, don't even get me started!"

But she did get started and by the time they were done eating, Ingrid was up to date with the amorous drama starring Cait's flatmates. She occasionally shared similar anecdotes from her student years and soon, their wine bottles were as empty as their plates and their sides sore with laughter.

"That was fun," Ingrid said, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye.

Cait responded with an uneasy smile.

"What is it?"

The girl fidgeted with her half-full glass. "I actually... had a reason for asking you over tonight."

"What's that?"

Cait hesitated, then pushed her glass away and leaned on her elbows on the table. "I... found her, Ingrid. Sofia Ortega. I found her grave."

June, 2013

As was her habit, Ingrid stepped topless out of the bathroom after her shower. She only had her knickers on because she never expected to find anyone in her bedroom – maybe Sofia, if she was changing the linen. Or Jack, except he was hardly ever home these days.

She would have definitely never counted on seeing a shirtless, sweaty Leon Ortega spread-eagled on the mattress, with a hand in his sweat shorts. She immediately covered her breasts, but held her chin high.

"What the fuck are you doing in here?" Ingrid demanded.

He dragged himself up, sitting on the edge of the bed, and licked his fingers one by one. "Thinking of you. Listening."

She hugged herself tighter.

One of his hands retrieved a glass vial from his pocket, from which he poured a line of white powder on the back of his hand and snorted it up, throwing his head back afterwards.

"Do you touch yourself in the shower?" His voice was a deep, strained growl.

She barely kept hers from cracking under her nerves. "What kind of a question is that?"

Half a shrug, too carefree for her comfort. He stood up, prowling towards her, and backed her up against the wall. Lowered his mouth to her ear.

"Can he even get it up without a little blue pill?"

As he spoke, his hand travelled between her legs and his fingertip pressed into her through the fabric of her knickers. She withheld a whimper.

"And if he can, does he ever fill you up?"

His finger rubbed back and forth between her folds, until her arousal soaked through.

"That's it," he murmured in her ear.

His palm withdrew briefly, only to slip down her stomach past her waistband. Ingrid gasped, her mouth poised open for a scream, but he brought his fingers to her lips and hushed her.

"Relax," he urged her. "I'm not gonna hurt you. In fact, I'm gonna make you feel better than you ever have."

His hand left her and fetched the vial of cocaine instead. He held it up to her face.

"You know what this is?" Leon opened the tiny bottle and drew another line on the back of his hand, which he brought up to her nose. "Forget the weed. This is the real deal."

Ingrid gulped. She'd tried coke once before, at a party in London when she was a student there. It'd been a one-of-a-kind experience but luckily, not one her friends would have let her repeat. Out here, however, with nothing better to do, there was no stopping her.

She put a finger to one nostril and ducked to inhale the smooth powder, cleaning it all up with a swift, dizzying move. Her pupils dilated as the chemical heat surged through her blood, making her heart beat faster. Suddenly the ground gave way under her feet and she shrieked until Leon dropped her down on the bed.

He had not spoken in vain earlier, Ingrid realised, as he tore off her knickers. She squirmed and moaned and cried under the weight of his ministrations, burning up, insatiable, craving his worshipping touch. Her zenith eluded her and straining to reach it left her depleted – yearning to be filled to the brim with endless molten ecstasy.

It never happened, though, and even if he only ever used his fingers and his mouth, this had possibly been her most intense sexual encounter since Amsterdam. Hell, even before that, everything had been vanilla compared to this.

This... oh, this had been criminal. Leon Ortega had thrown the floodgates open to something she couldn't stop and became her first addiction.

"Sleep well, hermosa," he whispered over her face once she'd become too spent to keep going. "My turn to shower now. And I will touch myself. Thinking of you."

He kissed her cheek, bringing her hand to the bulge in his shorts.

"Of the sounds you make, of the way you taste and feel and smell..." He grunted when her fingers twitched against him. "So if you ever get tired of that old man of yours, you know what I can give you. Where to find me. All you have to do is ask, mi reina, and I will obey."

He grazed his teeth against the hot flesh on her shoulder, licked and kissed the spot he'd set aflame, then he disappeared and she cuddled a pillow, panting in his wake.

*

song of the chapter: baila conmigo by carla's dreams

https://youtu.be/OxLFTo6GuVY