A Fierce and Subtle Poison Read Free Page B

was some indigent fishing village where mainland hippies went to surf and get high. He couldn’t wait to build a hotel out there and help give the town a “touch of class,” as he liked to say. It didn’t hurt that he’d make a fortune in the process.
    My dad and I, like the scientist at the end of Calle Sol, are gringos. And just like no one ever trusted the scientist, no one trusted us. Every summer since I was ten, the two of us would come to San Juan from Houston and stay at this luxury hotel that his company had converted from an old convent. Every morning of every summer, after reading his newspaper, drinking his coffee, and eating his pan dulce and melon, my dad would get into the backseat of a big black car and be gone until sundown—out looking for other old buildings to convert to hotels or the perfect place on the beach on which to build from scratch. I’d spend my time roaming around the hotel by myself and playing out in the streets with the three Old San Juan kids who would give me the time of day. It was from those kids’ abuelas, mamás, and tías that I learned all of my stories about the island. They told me their stories, but they never trusted me. They smiled but never really meant it. Their whispers and suspicious stares always broke my heart.
    My dad was making his way to the other side of the courtyard just as Juan brought a fresh urn of coffee. Leave it to Michael Knight to complain, make a demand, and forget he did either.
    “Sorry about that,” I muttered with a pained smile. “But I’ll take some, please. And hey, Juan?” He cocked his eyebrow but didn’t look at me as he continued pouring the coffee. “Do you know if someone recently moved into the old house at the very end of Calle Sol?”
    Juan did a strange thing: he laughed. It started as a chuckle but quickly shifted into a full-on, open-mouthed, head-tipped-to-the-sky guffaw. Then he turned and walked away, shaking his head and wiping the tears from the corners of his eyes.
    I downed my cup of black coffee as quickly as I could and left the table without touching any more of my breakfast. Up in my room, I managed to get both of my shoes off before collapsing on top of the covers. If I dreamed of anything, I couldn’t remember what it was.
    That night, Marisol’s head was in my lap while my fingers explored the cool strands of her long hair. We were in Ruben’s bedroom with the group from the night before, half watching some American reality dating show because it was the only thing coming in on the antenna.
    Ruben was downing can after lukewarm can of Medalla and shouting insults at the television. On a tattered loveseat on the other side of the room, Rico was feeling up Marisol’s friend Ruth.
    “I’m sorry about what happened last night,” Marisol said before taking a sip from a straw that was plunged deep into a glass Coke bottle. “I had
way
too much to drink. I hope I didn’t say anything too embarrassing. If I did, just pretend it didn’t happen.”
    I smiled. She really was pretty; I hadn’t really noticed the night before. Her eyes weren’t purely coffee-brown after all. They were flecked with green and hazel, which gave them a wild quality.
    A gold charm in the shape of the letter
M
rested between her collarbones, where her skin was slick with sweat. It was hot in Ruben’s house even though the sun had set and even with the creaky ceiling fan whipping above our heads at full speed.
    “Mari!” Ruben cried out, pointing at the television. “You can be honest with me since we’re family and all. Tell me. What is it with this guy? He looks like he and Lucas could be brothers. What is it about skinny blond white guys that make all the girls line up, huh?”
    “Don’t answer that, Marisol,” I said.
    “I don’t see a line of girls here for Lucas,” Marisol replied before taking another sip of Coke.
    Ruben grunted and took a pull from his beer can. “You haven’t been around for long enough then. They