Chapter 1
Cas
There was a time when I was sweet and naïve. I heeded the law, minded my own business, and lived by the rules. Then I fell for a thief and gave him my heart. He didn’t even have to steal it. I handed it to him wrapped up with a pretty bow on a silver platter. The consequences are my burdens to carry. What happened to me is nobody’s fault but mine. I opened my heart and legs wide while closing my eyes.
I was stupid to fall in love with Ian Hart. He didn’t deserve my heart. He ordered Ruben, a member of his gang, to aim for the very organ I gifted him after rowing me to the middle of the Zambezi River and posing me like a sitting duck in his boat. When I dived into the water in a futile attempt at dodging the bullet, Ruben shot me in the side instead. I fell into a river infested with crocodiles and hippos, a very convenient grave. Indeed, there isn’t a more effective way of disposing of a body. The turbulent water swept me over rapids for more than a kilometer before hurling me over a waterfall.
I should’ve drowned. My defective heart should’ve stopped. The crocodiles should’ve dragged me to the bottom or a hippo should’ve chomped my body in two, but the god of the water, Nyaminyami, had mercy on me. Instead of taking two lives, he only took the life growing inside me. He spat me out on the banks below the falls. I’d rather it was the other way around, but Nyaminyami is a god of tragic love. Being separated from his wife by a manmade dam, he appreciates the suffering of unrequited love. Or maybe he’s punishing mankind.
The children fetching water found me. The men carried me to the huts. The women nursed me. None of them said a word to Ian, the man who owns the lodge on the banks of that river, because once upon a happier time, I was one of them. I worked, lived, and laughed alongside them. Perhaps they kept quiet only because I saved Banga and freed them from the evil spirit who’d taken the shape of a baboon.
It’s a good thing I’m used to fighting for survival. I’ve been fighting since the day I was born. Ironically, my weak heart made me strong. It took me three months to fully recover. The road to healing was painful in more than one way. The physical part was the easiest. The hardest part was dealing with the truth. Ian had ordered my death. The worst was mourning my baby, our baby, and later finding out I’ll never have other children.
One month later, on Christmas day, Ian scattered flowers on the water and declared me dead. That’s what the villagers told me.
“What kind of flowers?” I asked.
“Does it matter?” the women replied.
“Yes,” I said. “It matters.”
Orange blossoms.
There was even a ceremony. Shona, Banga, Waitada, and Garai wept as the coffin was lowered into the ground.
“What did he bury?” I asked.
What could he put in the casket? Did he sink it empty and lonely into the grave?
“The gun Ian gave you,” Vimbo said, “the one with the ivory grips.”
Ian stood stone-faced, they said, not shedding a tear. The cross stands on the hill that looks out over the river, the place where Ian took me for sundowners when he told me I could be happy there. I always thought there was something sentimental in him. Why else would he have tattooed love, survival, and humility on his skin? I guess I fell into the survival bracket. He planned my murder because he believed I betrayed him. He didn’t love me enough to let me explain. He once told me humility means we carry all the blame for our mistakes but not all the credit for our accomplishments. Ha. I carry all the blame for loving him.
Now there’s a cross at the very place where we conceived our baby, a child he’ll never know existed. It’s ironic but also fitting.
The villagers loaded me into a van with enough food for a week, and the driver smuggled me over the border into South Africa. After the night Ian had stolen me, he’d given me five million rand in an offshore account. I wasn’t planning on ever using that money, but I withdrew some cash. The first thing I bought was a gun. The second was a false identity. Officially, I’m dead. I’m not Cassandra Joubert any longer. I can be whoever I want to be.
I stay on the move between Botswana and South Africa, training every day. With each passing day, I get stronger and faster. Where I’d once sworn I wouldn’t touch the money Ian gave me, I now use those funds for one purpose only—to find the man who killed me. When I do, I’m going to kill him right back.
Chapter 2
Cas
It’s pure instinct that brings me to the motel opposite the bar in Victoria Falls. The only guarantee I have that Ian Hart may be here is that it’s Christmas day, the anniversary of my official death.
Yes, the anniversary of my baby’s death, but I try not to think about her—I think of our baby as a girl—so much these days. The pain is too brutal. It distracts me from my goal of tracking Ian, which is no easy task.
The gang split up. From what I could gather, Ian retired. He’s no longer robbing casinos and jewelry vaults. Like me, he’s been moving around. He’s been spotted in the northwest province of South Africa, Mozambique, and Angola, but never in Zimbabwe. I don’t know what became of Leon and Ruben, the other two gang members, and I don’t care. Ruben pulled the trigger, but he acted on Ian’s command. Anyway, it’s not Ruben I loved. My business is with Ian. Ruben is a goal for later.
Tonight, Ian may or may not be here. It’s a gamble. He came to the bar after the funeral, probably to celebrate his victory. He’d gotten rid of me successfully. I was a task ticked off on his list. I don’t dare ask at the lodge or interrogate the villagers. We made a pact when I left not to speak again. They saved me, but they’re loyal to Ian. They were willing to help me because of what he did, but now we’re even. If I ever go back, I can’t count on them not to tell on me. The gates of his property are still guarded and the fences patrolled. I do have a backup plan for getting inside, but I’ll have less people to fight if I can find him alone.
Loud singing coming from outside draws my attention to the grubby window of the motel room. A few drunk men are making their way across the parking of the bar on the opposite side of the road. With their arms thrown around each other’s shoulders, they stumble to the corner of the lot where the taxis are parked. People with families are home tonight, drinking ginger beer around Christmas trees with sparkling lights and gifts wrapped in red paper and pretty bows. People with no one get drunk. People with no one go to the bar to forget they have no one and hope to get laid.
No new vehicles are parked in the lot. I’ve been keeping an eye on the bar since dusk. If he doesn’t show up by eleven, I’ll spend the night in the motel and summon the microlight pilot to land me on Ian’s property tomorrow. I’ll sneak up to the bungalow and surprise him if he’s there. The pilot, who’s offering tourist rides over the falls, will wait to fly me back to town. It’s a good plan, but one I’ll implement only if all else fails. The idea of going back to the lodge tightens my chest. Already being back here, in town, unsettles me. It’s not easy.
I push down the memories and turn my face toward the chipped mirror on the wall. The woman staring back at me has black hair styled into a short bob and green eyes thanks to contact lenses. My body is leaner these days, less soft and less curvy. The angles of my hipbones and shoulders are sharper, reflecting the hard edges of what’s inside. I’m wearing a tight, pink top and a black skirt that clings to my thighs. The hem of the top ends above my navel and the skirt barely covers my ass. It’s a slutty outfit meant to look cheap. Easy. It’s the kind of outfit that attracts men like bees to a honeypot. I spray on the perfume I got from the supermarket that smells like cotton candy. My makeup is dark, my lips glossy and red, and my eyelashes false. I look nothing like the old me. Tonight, I’m Cindy.