Translucent

  DEDICATION

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  DESTRUCTIVE

  EACH AND EVERY DAY, I fear when he comes home from work. Never knowing what to expect, I hope for the best, but prepare for the worst, and I have no choice but to take whatever comes. I belong to a man who claims he loves me, but as each day passes, I realize he only loves to control me. He calls me his American Princess, but revels in treating me like his slave. My name is Bryleigh Carter Oliveira, and this is my story.

  Sitting at the kitchen table with a high-powered assault rifle in my lap, my legs shake violently at the thought of what I’m about to do. I continue to remind myself there is no other way. Fleeing is not an option; running away would be a suicide mission, with a little added torture thrown in as the prep work. Though I’ve never been on the receiving end of his style of physical persecution, I’ve witnessed it more times than I ever care to think about. No, this is what I must do if I want any chance at all to escape.

  The sound of the garage door opening alerts me he’s home. My heart thumps wildly inside my chest, and my palms are slick with sweat. Facing the door he will walk through in mere moments, I lift the oversized weapon—one of many kept in our closet—and point it straight ahead.

  The door swings open and he stands there staring at me. Confusion sweeps over his face briefly, but understanding quickly follows. He holds his hands up above his head in surrender, not taking another step towards me.

  “Eu sempre te amarei, minha Princesa Americana,” he says in Portuguese, his native tongue, using the softest voice I’ve ever heard come from his mouth. “Mesmo depois de morrer.”

  I’d told myself not to let him speak, to shoot at first sight, but instead of making me feel guilty or second-guessing my decision like I’d feared it would, his words—claiming he’ll always love me, even in death—cut through me like the knife he used to stab that poor girl this morning. They slice like a sharp blade straight through my gut, only I’m not carrying his child like she was.

  “I’ll always fucking hate you,” I whisper, not even sure he can hear me as I empty thirty muffled rounds of lead into his chest in less than a minute. “Even in death.”

  Impassiveness envelops me, and I feel an inscrutable sense of detachment from the situation, as if I’m watching the scene play out in front of me through someone else’s eyes. Completely surreal.

  Picking up my cell phone from the table, I dial the number the federal agent had given me months ago—the one I thought I’d never use. He answers on the first ring.

  “Hello, Diomassi speaking.”

  “This is Bryleigh Oliveira, and I just killed my husband.”

  SOMETIMES YOU REACH A POINT where you just can’t take anymore—a breaking point, some call it. The day I watched my husband murder the woman who was pregnant with his child, my point didn’t just break; it exploded like a full magazine’s worth of hollow points firing through the barrel of a fully-automatic AK-47. Literally. I am no longer his American Princess, nor am I his slave. Now, I’m a murderer in hiding. My name was Bryleigh Carter Oliveira, and that was my story.

  “Start over. Forget about everyone you care about and everything that’s happened in the past. It’s your only chance to stay alive.”

  Marshal Doherty’s words echo in my head as I sit in deafening silence on the unfamiliar black leather couch. Start over. I’m living in a new apartment in a new city; I’ve got a new job, a new appearance, and even a new name. I think I’ve got it covered. Forget about everyone you care about and everything that’s happened in the past. Everyone I care about is dead, and there’s no fucking way I can ever forget the things I’ve seen and heard. No matter how hard I try, those images will haunt my dreams forever. It’s your only chance to stay alive. My heart beats and I breathe air in and out of my lungs, but a bitter cold has frozen my spirit, leaving my soul lifeless, and my will to live depleted. I’m a comatose patient they refuse to pull the plug on, and no matter how loudly I scream ‘Do Not Resuscitate!’, nobody hears me. My voice is drowned out by mountainous stacks of legal papers and the government’s unrealistic hope to bring down the Italian Outfit in Chicago.

  Startled by a door of a neighboring apartment slamming shut, I leap to my feet and scan the still-strange living room, catching a glimpse of the foreign image in the mirror hanging over the fireplace. My pulse stabilizes when I realize the only other person in the room with me is the terrified girl that shares my same azure eyes.

  I walk slowly over to the reflective glass to get a better look at her. Layered blonde hair falling just past my shoulders replaces the curly, chocolate tresses that used to cascade halfway down my back. High cheekbones are now more prominent than before from unwelcome weight-loss, which also causes my already-full lips to appear larger than normal. Then there are my eyes. What was once my most striking feature—bright blue irises full of energy, vitality, and trust—are now despondent, detached, and defeated. The misery churning inside from what they’ve witnessed torments me day and night. I shake my head fiercely, trying to rid my mind of the memories threatening to seep in, and the girl in the mirror does the same. Her hopeless stare tells me it doesn’t work for her either.

  Nothing ever works.

  Nothing.

  Sighing with despair, I step away from the mantle and amble over to the bar to grab my purse and keys. I suppose I shouldn’t be late for my first day of work. Not that it really matters much; they can’t fire me without the approval of the United States Marshals Service, but I at least want to begin this position in the good graces of my bosses. I’ve never been one to rock the boat, always seeking approval from my mom and teachers when I was younger, and never wanting to get in trouble. A pleaser, some would call it. It’s quite ironic how that personality trait has landed me in a life devoid of pleasure.

  Smoothing down the gauzy fabric of my periwinkle blue blouse, I hurriedly cross the street from the parking lot to the towering gray building that is home to the offices of JDT Graphic Designs. The crisp, early May morning in Burbank is much cooler than I’d assumed it’d be, and I wish I’d worn pants as I feel the stubble emerge on my legs jutting out from under my black pencil skirt. Growing up in the Windy City, I always imagined southern California to be sunny and eighty-five degrees year-round. However, day one outside the confines of my apartment, the threatening dark clouds above and chilly temperatures matching my mood are proving me wrong. This shit follows me everywhere.

  Following a herd of people through the glass revolving door, I keep their pace through the foyer and shuffle into the elevator. As I stand towards the back of the crowded, rectangular space, I evaluate the other people in the car and notice most of them hold their five dollar coffees and stare at the screen of their smartphones. No one’s talking or making eye conta
ct, everyone absorbed in their own little world. I wonder how many of these same people share this same elevator on a daily basis and never say a word to each other. The decline of social skills and approachability in society depresses me. My mom used to say I could strike up a friendly conversation with anyone; I loved to smile and say hello to strangers, to hopefully brighten their day for a brief moment. Now, I’m afraid to talk to anyone or look them in the eyes, fearful they’ll see who I really am and know what I’ve done.

  I exit the elevator on the eighth floor, directly into the lobby of my new place of employment. A young, attractive brunette sits behind the large, modern steel desk with a headset on. As I approach, she looks up at me with a warm smile.

  “Good morning! Welcome to JDT Graphic Designs. How can I help you?” Her energetic voice sounds genuine, and her eyes sparkle with happiness. I hope it’s a sign this is an enjoyable place to work.

  Returning the smile as best as I can, I reply softly, “Hi, umm…good morning. I’m Blake Martin. I believe I’m supposed to be meeting with Mr. Thompson at eight-thirty?” My voice quivers with uncertainty, and I immediately feel unsure of everything. My clothes, my hair, my name, this job—it all seems wrong.

  “Of course, Ms. Martin,” she chirps, “he’s been expecting you. Go ahead and make your way down the hallway; his office is the last one on the left.”

  “Thank you,” I answer appreciatively before heading towards the narrow corridor.

  The sound of my heels clicking on the tile mimics the ticking of a bomb counting down to detonation, and I become more unnerved with each step. Finally, I reach his office. Before knocking on the door, I inhale and exhale deeply, praying I don’t fuck this up.

  “Come on in, Blake,” he calls out prior to my knuckles making contact with the wood. I guess the receptionist alerted him of my arrival.

  Twisting the knob with my clammy hand, I push open the door to find a middle-aged man standing up from his enormous workstation and walking towards me. He’s a wiry-thin guy with a headful of curly red hair and a face covered in freckles, and he’s dressed in what I’d consider business casual—a long-sleeved polo shirt with khakis. Extending his hand as he gets close, his bright smile reaches his green eyes.

  “Good morning,” he welcomes me with a firm handshake. “It’s so nice to finally meet you. I’m Joseph Thompson, CEO of JDT Graphics, and we’re happy to have you join our team.”

  His friendly nature helps push some of my nerves aside, and slowly, I begin to feel a little better. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Thompson. I truly appreciate the opportunity to work here. I’ve always loved to design and create, so I hope I will be a helpful addition to the company.”

  Nodding, he beckons me over to some chairs. “Please, come sit down and let me tell you a little about what exactly we do here and what your role will be.”

  Following him to the sitting area, I keenly listen to him explain the different projects his company has been associated with, and the ones they’re currently working on. Most of their endeavors are marketing-related—usually graphics for commercials and print ads—but they’ve recently signed a contract with Decker Enterprises to work on the improvement of several video games. My specific position will be to assist the lead designer, Jae Liu, on this latest undertaking in pretty much every capacity.

  “I’m going to warn you, Blake,” he says honestly. “There will most likely be some late nights, and possibly even a few weekends associated with the position; we’ve been given pretty strict deadlines by the parent company. It was important for me to find someone who didn’t have a family to rush home to or feel guilty about neglecting. I’ve been assured this won’t be a problem for you, but I want you to confirm this before we get started. I have limited knowledge of your background, and the information that has been shared with me will go no further. I will do everything in my power to help you begin your new life here.”

  “No, sir, Mr. Thompson,” I quickly answer, “no family or anyone else for me to hurry home to. Other than your receptionist, you’re the second person I’ve spoken to since moving to California a couple of weeks ago. I’ll do whatever it takes to get the job done.” I’d already been briefed on what information Mr. Thompson had been given; all he knows is I am a protected witness who needed to start over fresh, and no other details were divulged for his safety and mine.

  “Excellent,” he beams, “now let me introduce you to Jae. I think you two are going to get along great.”

  Following him into one of the offices I’d passed while walking down the hall, we enter a space nearly identical to his. A massive workstation with three oversized monitors are set up towards the back left corner of the room, and there’s a small lounge area with a mini-fridge and microwave against the right wall. At first, I don’t see anyone, but when Mr. Thompson calls out her name, a tiny Asian woman emerges from behind several cardboard boxes stacked close to the workstation.

  “Good morning, Mr. Thompson. Sorry, I’d gotten lost in all these reviews,” she explains with a chuckle. Turning her attention to me, she smiles widely and offers me her petite hand. “You must be Blake. It’s so nice to meet you, and to get some help with all of this.”

  Shaking her hand, I once again force myself to return the smile. It’s not that I dislike these people, or have bad first impressions—quite the opposite, actually—it’s just been so long since I’ve had any reason to be happy, the muscles in my face have all but forgotten the expression. “Pleasure to meet you too, Jae. I’m looking forward to it.”

  “I’m going to leave you two to get acquainted and allow Jae to catch you up to speed, Blake. If you need anything, please don’t hesitate to ask. We will have meetings to discuss our plan of attack beginning next week,” Mr. Thompson says gleefully as he spins around and heads out of the office.

  Once the door closes behind him, I look to Jae for direction on what to do next. Still smiling, she’s studying me from head to toe, which makes me feel more than a little uncomfortable. Standing at five-foot-six, I’ve never considered myself tall by any means, but compared to her petite stature, I feel like a giant. Her lustrous, straight black hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and her flawless olive complexion requires no make-up at all, but she’s got a little mascara and lipstick on to enhance her natural beauty. Dressed in a stylish black pantsuit accessorized with a jade green silk scarf and gold dangling earrings, I’d guess she’s in her early-to-mid-thirties, but I could be way off; it’s been over a year since I’ve been around the general public.

  “I was expecting a guy with the name Blake, so I dressed up a little today,” she discloses. “I prayed for a hottie for an assistant; I suppose I should’ve clarified I wanted a male. Damn gods!” She shakes her fists at the ceiling and throws her head back in laughter, and then motions for me to follow her.

  Unsure if I should respond or not, I trail after her to the boxes she was standing behind when I first came in. “I hope I’m not too big of a disappointment,” I reply meekly.

  Whipping her head around, she nearly hits me in the face with her hair. “Don’t be silly, girl. I’m just teasing you. Well, I really did dress nicer than normal in case you were a hot guy—because you know what they say about there’s no second chance to make a first impression and all—but I’m not disappointed. As long as you and I can work well together on this project, that’s all I care about. We’re going to be spending so much time together we have no choice but to be friends.” She pats my arm in a reassuring gesture, her eyes softening. “Now let me show you what I’m doing with all this mess.”

  By the end of the first day, I’m afraid my eyes are crossed permanently after reading so many reviews of video games. Never having been a ‘gamer’ myself, I had no idea people were so passionate and opinionated about the precision and accuracy of these sports games. My brother and his friends used to spend hours in his room screaming at the television while playing the X-BOX or PlayStation, but I always thought they were yelling at each ot
her, not the games themselves. However, I now know it does indeed matter where batters’ hands are placed on the bat, and whether or not a specific player wears his socks to his knees, as well as thousands of other details that seem insignificant to me. Jae and I have spent nearly ten hours taking note after note from these reviews in order to decide which of the concerns are most prominent and which games are most flawed.

  “All right, hun, let’s call it a day. All of these boxes will still be waiting right here for us tomorrow,” she states as the clock nears seven-fifteen.

  I begin to separate the pages I’ve gone through, and those that have yet to be read, so I’ll know where to begin in the morning. “Sounds good,” I respond softly.

  Conversation between the two of us is relaxed. She enjoys talking about herself, which makes it easy for me to do most of the asking, instead of answering questions. I hate lying to people, but the truth is I can’t tell her the reality of my past. I can’t tell anyone. When she inquired about my family, I was very blunt in saying, “All of my family is gone. Please don’t ask me to talk about my life before here; it’s painful to rehash.” Respectfully, she didn’t venture there again, and instead, we discussed music and television programs for the rest of the afternoon.

  We both grab our purses and make our way towards the elevator bank. I notice several office lights still on, so I assume working late hours is the norm around the company. Knowing other people are with us makes me feel safer for some reason, even though I know it wouldn’t matter how many people were there if they found out where I was. They’d kill them all without hesitation just to get to me. A shudder runs down my spine at the thought.

  “Would you like to grab a bite to eat, or do you need to get home?” she asks as we exit the elevator into the main lobby downstairs.

  Having had enough social interaction for the day, I decline graciously and suggest maybe some other time. She nods understandingly, a look of pity flashing through her cappuccino-colored eyes. Veering off in the direction of my car, I wave a quick goodbye as we part at the door. All seventeen steps it takes me to reach my silver Jetta, my eyes probe the parking lot and surrounding area, looking for anyone or anything that looks suspicious, knowing it’s only a matter of time before I’m found.