Read Master of the Opera, Act 5: A Haunting Duet for Free Online Page B

least bit worried or afraid, call or text my cell. Text 911 to me and we’ll come right in.”
    “Trust your instincts,” the second cop urged her. “There’s no shame in asking for help.”
    “Thank you.” The emotions of the past few days threatened to swamp her with these two officers so earnestly concerned for her safety. They watched as she programmed the number into her phone. “I’ll call if I need you.”
    “Can I be of assistance, Officers?” Domingo Sanclaro jogged down the hacienda steps, looking like Ricardo Montalbán in his white suit.
    “Mr. Sanclaro.” The first officer tipped his cap. “We’re here to see to Ms. Davis’s continued well-being.”
    He sized them up, dark eyes glittering with ill-concealed malevolence. “Do you impugn the reputation of my family?”
    “No, sir. Just following orders, sir. We were instructed not to let Ms. Davis here out of our sight, but your son informs us that we’re not welcome inside the house.”
    “My son is correct. Unless you have a search warrant, you must leave the grounds immediately.”
    “Is that what you want, Ms. Davis? It’s not too late to come with us.” The cop ignored the rage suffusing the elder Sanclaro’s face.
    “Thank you, yes. I’ll be in touch.” She tucked her phone into her pocket, glad the granny dress at least offered that.
    The police officers turned back down the drive while the three of them watched, Christine flanked by the Sanclaro men. In the low heels Roman had chosen for her, she felt short and vulnerable. Part of her wanted to run shrieking after the cops to save her. The other part—a confident part that had survived after all—made her stay.
    “Well, Christy.” Domingo Sanclaro looked her up and down. “It’s always a pleasure to have you here. Welcome to your new home. It’s good that you understand.”
    Roman took her hand and tucked it possessively in the crook of his arm, then slipped her phone out of her pocket and put it in his own. “She does. As you predicted, your arguments were most persuasive—she’s ready to take her place in our family.”
    Domingo smiled, his glittering teeth white. He leaned in and kissed her on the cheek, right on the bruise his son had put there. “Of course they were. My future daughter-in-law is no fool. Now come along; dinner is ready and Reina will be displeased if we continue to linger.”
     
    They all sat around an enormous wooden table that seemed straight out of the Spanish Inquisition. The dining room, lined with oil portraits of the illustrious Sanclaro ancestors, was full of shadows. A stern-faced woman stared down at Christine from one, the opal ring prominently displayed in the center of the painting. The reproduction of the twins in the museum had looked richer; in real life the old oils had cracked in the desert heat. It probably should have been properly archived. They seemed to stare back at her as she ate, Angelia and Seraphina, with their father’s Castilian nose and the broad, flat cheekbones of their mother.
    They had grown up without her temporizing influence, connected to their crippled god as their priestess mother had been put under the cruel and ruthless hand of their conquistador father. Perhaps he had loved his daughters, the extension of his empire. But the cold expressions on their faces belied that hope. They sat, side by side on an austere pew, in black dresses like nuns, their hands overlapping to show the twin opal rings. Looking at them, Christine couldn’t remember which was which.
    Domingo sat at the head of the table, of course, with Roman at his right and his wife at his left. Christine sat next to Roman with Angelia across from her, wearing a demure white cotton dress. With her long, soft black hair held back by a pearl headband, she seemed to be an angel indeed. The rest of the long table stretched down at least twenty more place settings.
    Just an intimate family dinner at the Sanclaros.
    They ate chicken mole and fresh