The Forgotten. Heather Graham
4
Extract from The Hidden by Heather Graham
“Maria.”
Maria Gomez started at the sound of her name.
She’d thought she was alone.
She had been sitting in the darkness, just staring out at the night, when she’d heard her name spoken. She didn’t even turn at first. She was certain she had imagined it. Her name, spoken so softly, with such affection—by him.
Because all she did was think about Miguel.
She was so numb. She knew that her children worried about her, that her friends and family worried about her, and yet she could do nothing but stare out at the night. Her balcony was beautiful; she looked out over the walled and tree-laden backyard of the beautiful home she and Miguel had built together in Coconut Grove.
In doing so, she looked out over her life. The children had climbed the great banyan tree that grew so close to the house, just beyond the balcony. She and Miguel had hosted pool parties for Little League teams, for the Brownies and Girl Scouts. They’d hosted Michelle’s engagement party and a shower for Magdalena when little Sophia had been due.
But the past was gone. The night was quiet. Only the mental echo of haunted laughter remained of the happiness that had once lived here. She knew that it was time for her to leave, too. Join the children up north, where none of them would be happy—but where they would be safe.
Miguel was gone. He had been the great force in the family. She was empty without him, empty of all the things that made a family strong. She hadn’t even been eighteen when she had married him; they’d had nearly twenty-five years together. She had always trusted him.
He’d always been honest with her.
Some said that he had been a very bad man; Maria knew that wasn’t true. He had gotten swept up into bad things with bad men, but he had never hurt anyone himself; he had simply been born at the wrong place at the wrong time.
It had felt like a knife in her heart when she’d read the reports of his death in the paper; he had died as such a man might, the press—apparently desperate to be as dramatic as possible—had reported. His death had been accompanied—literally—by the same searing flame of violence with which he had lived. Doused with accelerants and burned beyond recognition, burned to cinders. Maria didn’t even know if he’d been killed before the fire—she prayed he had been.
Those reporters! Even they claimed it was a heinous end, despite whatever deeds he had allegedly committed. He’d been involved in the drug trade, and everyone knew the drug trade was filled with cold-blooded killers.
But she knew that Miguel had never done anything but own land.
Most certainly his killers had known that he had gone to the American government.
That was the reason he’d been killed, of course. And the FBI man who had come to the funeral, the one Miguel had gone to, Agent Brett Cody, had been visibly distressed by that knowledge. Agent Cody had been pulled off the case shortly after he and Miguel had spoken, because other agents who specialized in the drug trade had been assigned to work with, to look after, her husband. Maria had told Agent Cody that she did not blame him for Miguel’s death; after all, he hadn’t gone to Miguel—Miguel had gone to him.
Miguel had been foolish; the government hadn’t worked very hard for him. Protection? He hadn’t been protected for a second. The men watching over him hadn’t even found him until the fire had ravaged his body and rendered it unrecognizable.
She didn’t entirely blame the agents, though. Those in the drug trade knew what they were up against if they tried to leave. Those who weren’t in the trade didn’t know that protection might not be possible—even agents who were assigned to the trade didn’t always know that. No one could be watched every minute. And there was still someone out there—watching her.
“Maria.”
She heard her name again. It was Miguel’s voice. She missed him so badly that she could still hear him. It was almost as if she could breathe in his scent.
“Maria.”
His voice seemed to be coming from behind her.
She turned. Her heart slammed to a stop in her chest, and she jumped to her feet, astonished.
There was Miguel. He was standing just inside the double doors that led from the patio back into their bedroom. He looked to be real, flesh and blood. He was there...
Just as quickly as it had ceased to beat, her heart took flight. They’d been wrong. The bone fragments found in the fire had not belonged to Miguel.
Because Miguel was standing right in front of her.
She raced to him, throwing her arms around him. He barely moved in response. She drew back, staring at him. It was Miguel. But...
Something was wrong with him. Something was really wrong.
“Miguel, what—what have they done to you?” she asked.
His eyes were blank as he stared back at her. Then, to her astonishment, he picked her up.
And he walked back out to the balcony without saying a word.
He spoke like Miguel, he smelled like Miguel, he looked like Miguel, but...
She was confused, but her confusion cleared in a split second when she realized his intent, and started to scream.
A bottlenose dolphin leaped majestically out of the water, crystal droplets raining down around it in the morning sun. It splashed as it landed, then appeared almost to fly as it raced around the lagoon, thrusting itself out of the water with the power of its fins and flukes, all the while staring straight at Lara Mayhew. The dolphin emitted a chattering sound, something delightfully akin to laughter.
Lara smiled at the sight and sound of the dolphin, a beautiful female estimated to be about ten years old and named Cocoa. Rick Laramie, the head dolphin trainer, had