I Faked My Death and He Lost His Mind novel · Chapter 2 of 12
Chapter 2: Paracas
I drove three hours south on the Pan-American Highway, the window down, the desert passing by on either side like a gray sheet.
I didn’t put on any music.
I didn’t cry.
I didn’t think, either.
I just drove, both hands on the wheel, until I saw the sign for the Paracas National Reserve.
Aarón was waiting for me at the pier.
He stood beside his boat, a twelve-meter vessel with a white hull.
It had a blue flag and a name painted by hand on the bow.
He wore a black T-shirt and diving pants, and his hands were stained with grease.
He was thirty-five, with short hair and three days’ worth of stubble.
He’d been my father’s first mate for twelve years.
He’d taught me to tie sailor’s knots when I was fourteen.
Then he bought his own boat, and I stopped seeing him except at the funeral.
There, he’d hugged me without saying a word, one huge hand at the back of my neck.
I got out of the car.
I stood in front of him.
“You look worse than I thought,” he said.
“Thanks.”
“I don’t mean your face.”
“Then what do you mean?”
“The way you walk.”
He watched me for a few more seconds.
Then he opened the cabin door.
“Come in. I’ve got coffee.”
His house was right beside the pier, a wooden building with a corrugated metal roof and a view of the bay.
Inside, there was an old couch and shelves full of regulators and wetsuits.
There was only one chair at the kitchen table, and it was occupied by a toolbox.
Aarón moved it.
I sat down.
He handed me a mug.
I drank.
I talked for ten straight minutes, without stopping to breathe.
I told him about the clinic.
About “it’s mine.”
About “I was the first.”
When I finished, the mug was empty, and I was still as a statue.
Aarón didn’t say anything for a long while.
He was leaning against the sink, arms crossed.
“What a son of a bitch.”
“Yeah.”
“Where is he now?”
“With her. Probably wondering where I am.”
“And you?”
“I want to disappear.”
Aarón frowned.
“Disappearing means moving to another city. Changing your number. Getting divorced.”
“I want to die.”
“Fiorella...”
“For them,” I clarified. “I want them to think I drowned. Tonight. I want them left with the doubt, the guilt, the search. I don’t want them to be able to call me, look for me, or ask me to understand.”
“That’s insane.”
“I know.”
“It’s a crime.”
“I don’t have life insurance or debts. No one gets anything. They’ll just have a few really bad days.”
“And what about you?”
“I don’t care.”
“You do care.”
“Aarón...”
“Don’t give me that. I’ve known you since you were fourteen, and you were stubborn as a mule.”
I looked at my mug.
“My dad would’ve said to leave Aníbal and go live wherever I wanted.”
“Your dad would’ve killed Aníbal.”
“That too.”
Aarón laughed without meaning it.
Then he rubbed the back of his neck.
“I’m not letting you do this alone. If you’re going to do something crazy, I’d rather be there to see it.”
“Will you help me?”
“With conditions.”
I looked up.
“Tell me.”
“One. No one gets hurt. Not you, not me, not the Coast Guard. People go into the water to look for someone and die. I don’t want that.”
“Okay.”
“Two. You stay here until things calm down. Here, at my place. You use my phone, not yours. And you don’t go out on the pier during the day.”
“Okay.”
“Three.” He hesitated. “When this is over, you come back. You face them. You don’t stay dead forever.”
I smiled despite myself.
“That wasn’t part of my plan.”
“It’s part of mine.”
“Okay.”
He stood up.
He poured himself some coffee.
“If we do this,” he said slowly, “we do it right.”
We went to the pier.
He explained the plan while he painted a buoy and I handed him the brush.
I’d leave my car at the Costa Verde seawall lookout in Lima at nine that night.
With the keys in the ignition, one of my scarves on the seat, and a shoe at the edge of the cliff.
He’d wait for me below, in the fishermen’s cove, with a boat whose lights were off.
He’d pick me up, and we’d return to Paracas by sea, at eight knots, before sunrise.
“There’s one thing,” I said.
“Tell me.”
“I want Aníbal to see me do it.”
Aarón set down the brush.
“How?”
“I want him to know I’m leaving while I’m on the phone with him. I want him to hear my voice right beforehand.”
“That’s cruel.”
“I know.”
“Are you sure you want to be like that?”
I thought about his warm arm around my shoulders.
About his calm smile.
About “don’t be scared, love.”
“I’m sure,” I said.
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