MONTEIRO E-Book

Saana Lahtinen

• Herausgeber: Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 123

Beschreibung

After the events in Europe, Aloisio decides to have a fresh start somewhere far away. Running from your problems never works and, of course, with his luck they catch up to him fast. He decides to deal with them like his friend, Mariana, would have. The continuation of 'MARIANA'.

Leseprobe

All characters and events are fictional. I hope you enjoyed the first part ‘MARIANA’ and I hope you will enjoy this part as well.

Contents

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20.8.2023 , New York

25.8.2023 , New York

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28.8.2023 , Walden

1.9.2023 , New York

4. 9.2023, New York

(((((((((((((((((????!!!!!! /////////////(((((((((())))))))???!!!!!/////////!!!!!!!!!!!((( ((((((())/////(((((()))????

9.9.2023 , New York

17.9.2023 , New York

24.9.2023 , New York

1.10.2023 , New York

5.10.2023 , New York

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7.10.2023, Washington D.C.

17.10.2023 , Walden

29.10.2023, Washington D.C.

31.10.2023, New York

!!!!!!!!!))))))))/////////////????????????????/////////(((((((((((())))))))))))!!?????????????????!

3.11.2023, Charlottesville

10.11.2023, Faber?????

16.11.2023, Faber?????

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21.11.2023, Charlottesville

22.11.2023, Faber?????

22.11.2023, Faber?????

2.12.2023 , New York

?????, somewhere in Portugal, shit, I don't even know anymore

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The fall didn’t kill me, it paralyzed me. I wouldn’t call myself lucky for surviving that, Jesus, I can’t move my body. I can’t feel anything, so at least I’m not in pain. Thankfully, the fall did end that cunt.

The sun will rise soon; the sky looks gorgeous with all the shades of dark blue, purple, pink, yellow, orange, and red. The beautiful sky is all I can look at since I’m unable to move my head. My eyes water at the beauty of the universe.

The wind slightly blows on my face, it’s cool, but not cold.

Finally, the sky starts waking up. Soon, hikers will start appearing, and seeing us here will ruin their day. I should feel hopeful that I might be saved, but something in my gut tells me that I don’t have much time left. I feel calm, warm, and satisfied. The satisfaction comes from taking that man to meet his maker. I paid their kindness forward thanks to that dessert. Oh! The dessert was lovely. Rich and moist, I can still taste the flavour on my tongue.

My lips twitch, I’m trying to smile.

Birds are flying over me; I’m betting that they’re waiting for me to kick the bucket so that they can feed themselves. I’ll gladly let them, they deserve to survive and if I can be of service, that’s wonderful.

My eyelids feel heavier, oh my, I guess it’s time to go. I’m trying to stay focused on the sky turning blue, yet I can’t. My vision is starting to blur and–

20.8.2023 , New York

“Aloisio, do you want red wine or white wine?” Lydia asks me with an excited tone. As much as I’d need to drink something, I won’t. I haven’t touched a drop of alcohol since the end of June. Lydia keeps on talking about the wine selection of this restaurant, but all the other noises almost drown her out. She pushes her curly black hair out of her face, a sign that she’s concentrating on choosing a good wine. Lydia Campano is an Italian-American with a very strong attachment to Italy. Her parents are both from Naples, but they moved to Rhode Island in the 70s. Lydia was born in the United States, but she’s gone back to Italy almost every summer of her life. We met in early 2020 by accident. I was trying to publish my second book and needed a literary agent, but it was a stressful task for me. Naturally, I had found my way to a bar to drink my stress away and Lydia happened to be there doing the same. We talked about everything under the sun which led to Lydia becoming my literary agent.

“I’ll just have water.” Lydia looks amused at my answer. She’s seen me in worse conditions over the last few months and every time I’ve said the famous words I’ll never drink again, she’s believed me, but she has always been let down by me. I hope this time will be different. I desperately want it to be.

Lydia looks like she has something on her mind but doesn’t say it. Our eyes meet and I raise my eyebrows as a non-verbal indication that she can spit it out. “Shit, I’m really curious and I can’t help it anymore. What really happened in Europe?” Of course, that’s what she wants to know. Everyone wants to know what happened in Europe. Mariana is what happened there. Somehow, evidence about Harper’s murder had been leaked to the press, including the flash drive about Mariana’s whereabouts and suspicious incidents all over Europe. After that, true crime fanatics managed to link her and me to Lithuania, where I helped her cover up a murder. Everything was circumstantial and there was no real evidence, but that didn’t stop journalists from approaching me and people from finding out my phone number. There are many different theories, for instance, us being partners in crime, me being the real killer instead of Mariana, and that she was also responsible for the killings of James Tucker. If someone’s forgotten, James is the guy who took the lives of three women in Western Europe and also tried to kill Mariana. Though, she got his ass first. This whole case has been a big thing in Europe and the United States because James is originally from Virginia, and also because his younger brother has been quite vocal about it. “Well, Mariana happened in Europe. You know the story.” I don’t want to sound rude especially to Lydia because she’s just curious, but it has been exhausting dealing with all this. The truth is that I feel like I deserve to suffer the aftermath since I did do awful things. Lydia gives me a smile and lightly shakes her head: “Okay, I believe you, anyway what do you want to eat?”

The restaurant has many options and that’s making me nervous. I could try something new, something familiar, or something similar to what I like. The world is my oyster. When I try to read the descriptions of dishes, I can’t seem to focus. All the letters look blurry, and they keep jumping to different places. It would be easier if there were photos of all the dishes, so I wouldn’t have to read. There’s too much to read. My eyes sting from trying to focus on what’s on the menu. “Yeah, could I get the carbonara and a glass of your best red wine, please?” When did the waiter come to our table? I don’t know what I want yet. A familiar pressure on my chest makes it harder to breathe. When the waiter turns to me and asks: “And for you, sir?” I almost feel like throwing up, but I just stutter and ask for carbonara like Lydia did. I don’t even fucking like carbonara. I’ve been on the edge lately. Well, who wouldn’t be after what happened. There has been a lot of speculation in certain newspapers because of James’ younger brother, I think his name is Nick or some other boring-ass name. He’s been saying random bullshit about Mariana and I. Oh my God, every time I see his face on the news, I feel like hiring a hitman to take him out. I changed my phone number after Mariana died, but I had to change it again in June because I was getting calls from weird people. Some of them called themselves “detectives”, fucking detectives. In reality, they’re just unemployed people who have nothing else to do other than harass others. One guy also happened to be religious, and he told me that God will forgive me if I confess. For some reason that made me angry, and I might’ve told the guy to kill himself. That was pretty mean to say, but he wouldn’t leave me alone. This whole shitshow has caused problems for my family too. It’s strange how good some of these loser “detectives” are at finding out who my family is because I haven’t mentioned anything about them publicly.

“Do I remember you saying that you don’t like carbonara?” Lydia asks me. Maybe I have said that to her, honestly, I don’t remember.

“Well, I don’t remember telling you, but yes, I don’t like it. Shit, I hate it,” I confess. “I don’t know, I don’t like pepper.” That’s the worst fucking excuse I’ve ever come up with. She’s seen me use pepper on food. Lydia looks at me confused and maybe with a hint of amusement. She knows I’m lying, again. “Fine,” I sigh. “I don’t like the sauce.” There we go, that’s the truth. Well, the partial truth. I don’t like the sauce because I’m terrified of raw eggs for some strange reason.

25.8.2023 , New York

The last few days I’ve just been burying myself in work. When I can’t think of anything else except for work, I can’t slip into my other thoughts. It’s not a healthy way to cope, I know, but I don’t want to go to therapy. My father and brother keep on telling me to go even if just for one appointment, but I don’t want to. Honestly, I’m scared to go. I feel like the therapist can just look me in the eye and see what I’ve seen. A therapist would probably throw me in a padded white room and never let me out. I mean, what could I even tell a therapist that doesn’t get me locked up? Yes, I framed someone. Yes, I helped my friend cover up a murder. Yes, I gave my friend the tools to execute her plans. Yes, I refused to tell law enforcement all the details that might’ve helped them catch her before she threw herself off a fucking cliff. I feel guilty, paranoid, relieved, confused, sad, hopeless, and maybe a little suicidal.

I write until my wrist hurts so much that the pen drops from my hand. After that, I can barely move it. My wrist stings and I feel like the muscles are tearing apart. My handwriting isn’t messy, but now it is. I don’t even remember what I was writing, and I can’t understand what it says. I push the papers aside and bury my head in my hands. I feel like crying, I miss her. Sometimes, it feels like she isn’t really dead, but her not picking up the phone and the image in my head of Mariana after the autopsy beg to differ. What would she think seeing me like this? Would she laugh or feel sorry for me? Mariana would do both, first, she’d feel sorry for me and then she’d laugh until I’d start laughing. Once back in 2019 when we were celebrating her birthday, we somehow ended up in Sintra with little to no recollection of how we got there. The first thing she did was start laughing like a maniac. It caught me off guard, but it still made me laugh. A siren in the distance brings me back to reality; I’m not in Sintra as a 22-year-old celebrating with Mariana, I’m in New York alone writing a book that hurts my soul to make.

My phone is ringing somewhere in the living room. It takes a while to find the bastard, but when I do the ringing has already stopped. Marcus was trying to call me. He’s currently in Washington D.C. because a politician hired him to find out if his wife is cheating on him. I know Marcus thinks it’s a boring job, but the politician was willing to pay him well. The funny thing is that Marcus isn’t even a licensed private investigator. I’ve never asked him how he ended up working as one and I never will. Our relationship is built upon trust for each other and secrets that we’ll never speak of. That’s maybe the worst relationship advice on this goddamn planet, but it still works for us.

“Hey, you called. Sorry, I didn’t answer,” I say. “What’s up?” I’m met with Marcus hysterically laughing. After some time, he finally calms down and tells me: “The wife of that politician is cheating on him with his father aaaand with his sister! What the fuck is going on with them?” Okay, yeah, that makes me laugh and Marcus continues laughing. It’s not ethical for him to tell me details of cases he’s working on, but he isn’t even licensed, so it’s already fucked up that he’s working as a private investigator.

After we calmed down, he asked me basic questions; how are you feeling, what did you do today, etc. I answer his inquiries and then I ask him the same questions. “Well, today was interesting and uhhh, what else did I do? Oh! I got another possible job.” Marcus sounds like an excited child and that makes me smile. I congratulate him on the job opportunity. I’ll laugh if it’s another married person trying to find out if their spouse is cheating.

“Anyway, Aloisio, do you have any plans?”

“Yeah, on the 28th. It’s Miguel’s birthday.” Marcus hasn’t met my older brother before. No one in my family knows that I’m seeing Marcus. I’ve never told them about my relationships. Well, I did mention some ex-girlfriends years ago. They do ask me for details, but I never tell them any because I don’t know how they’ll react. All of them are heterosexual, at least I think they are, but I’m not.

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My chest stings, it feels like it has been cut open. My eyes are heavy, glued shut. Someone is holding my hand, the hand holding mine is warm and comforting, and it makes me feel safe. My hand is ice-cold against the warm hand. The hand caresses my fingers, then, I hear weak sobbing and cursing. I recognize the voice, but I’m unable to remember who it belongs to.

Why is that? Why can’t I remember?

The mysterious but familiar voice keeps on bothering me. I wish I could force my eyes open and see for myself, however that’s not possible. I can’t do that; I don’t have permission to do that.

28.8.2023 , Walden