Page 84 of High-Priority Asset

Chapter Twenty-Two

The hotel was on the waterfront of the San Diego Bay and the US Marshals Service had booked them a large suite with a separate living room, which gave Isabel her privacy and a generous amount of space to unwind in the bedroom, even though Will was there for protection.

Isabel dropped down on the comfy bed, wanting to sink into it, close her eyes and fall asleep. Maybe by the time she woke, Dutch would be there, and they could make love again. She’d missed sleeping with him last night. They needed time away together without the current stressors.

She took out her cell. Five percent battery life remaining. She’d left her charger back at the villa in her overnight bag.

Going through her phone, she found the number to the hospital in LA that she’d saved and dialed it.

“Hello,” the female voice was familiar, but not Brenda. Someone older.

“Mrs. Reaver, is that you?”

“Yes, may I ask who’s calling?”

“It’s me, Isabel.”

“Oh, sweetie, Brenda’s been asking for you,” Mrs. Reaver said.

“She’s awake?” Isabel almost cried tears of joy.

“Yes. She’s been lucid since we got here this morning. They just took her to run some tests, but she’ll be back any minute. She can’t wait to see you. Are you coming by soon?”

Her stomach clenched with regret. “No, I can’t stop by. I’m in San Diego. Can you take down the number to my hotel? My phone is about to die.”

“Sure.”

Isabel rattled off the number, along with which room she was in and the fake name they were registered under. “When she gets back, if she’s up to it, have her call me.”

“She’ll be up to it. She’s dying to talk to you. It shouldn’t be long.”

“Okay. Thank you, Mrs. Reaver.”

Isabel hung up. Her phone was at one percent and as good as dead. She climbed onto the bed and turned on the television, afraid to shower or fall asleep and miss Brenda’s call.

She turned to a show about decorating houses for background noise more than anything else. One program ran into the next while her thoughts whirled, spinning around the last two days, coming back to Emilio and what she’d learned.

Glancing at her purse, she picked up her bag and put it in her lap. She thought of the letter and wondered if she was strong enough to read it. Curiosity won.

She read the letter, slowly, shocked by every line that brought tears to her eyes. Emilio had poured his heart and soul and pain out onto the page. He had written poetic lines about the depths of his love for her. Apologized for everything. Took responsibility for her mother’s last days being difficult, for Luis’s anger, for ripping the family apart with his selfishness, for her confusing childhood, for his brother’s death. In the end, he begged her forgiveness.

He’d confessed to murder in the letter, sort of.

Could it be used as evidence to put him away? Would she use it against him?

He was flawed, corrupt and was guilty of monstrous things. But he was her father and regretted everything, despite what she had thought. Emilio was suffering, too, and he loved her deeply.

With her heart bleeding, she folded the letter, put it back in her bag and zipped her purse closed.

There was a loud knock at the main door of the suite.

“Hey,” Will called from the living room. “You could’ve let me know you ordered room service. I’m hungry, too.”

But she hadn’t ordered any room service. She still didn’t have an appetite and after reading that letter, it would be hours before she’d eat.

It was probably the wrong room.

There was a thud and then nothing besides the sounds of the two televisions.