In Another Time [Prologue]

-Just Like him-

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November 9^th, 1955, Alicante Jail

Eighteen-year-old Celestina gripped her handbag tighter as she stepped inside an eerie stone corridor, a single guard leading her toward one of the cells. He called through the bars to the man inside, who sat up on the metal bed and raised his head.

Celestina staggered back.

The guard put a gloved hand on her elbow. “¿Estás bien?”

She wanted to say “Si, I’m okay” and hide her emotion but her lips locked and her eyes widened when the prisoner turned his handsome oval face toward her. Her breath caught as her heartbeat sped up on seeing his dark-gray, hooded eyes—just as she remembered them from eleven years ago—but when a sneer appeared on his bow-shaped lips, she withered inside. This wasn’t the same man who raised her.

He got to his feet and place his hand on the bar separating them. “¡Hola! Hermosita,” he said, the disgusting smile never leaving his face.

She hated his insulting compliment. Hated how his eyes traveled down the length of her body. She struggled not to squirm, feeling as if an army of ants had crawled under her skin. But she endured it, looking him straight in the eyes. “¿Eres Ángel Castro Rivera?”

The man’s face lit up, his leer widening into a menacing smile. “Si.”

She swallowed, her throat sore from doing it so many times since leaving Beniardà. “Soy, Celestina. Hija de Maria Josefa De la Mota.”

Ángel’s smile faded for a second before returning. “Well,” he drawled, his flirty tone gone, “daughter of Maria Josefa, why are you here?”

“I’m your daughter.”

He looked at the guard, who shifted and turned toward the exit, but Celestina grabbed the hem of his uniform jacket, forcing him to stay.

Ángel sighed. “So, mi hija, what do you want from me?”

Good question. What did she want from him? Her mother turned thirty-three two months ago and, in her drunkenness, told her where her biological father was and that he looked just like her papá. And so, here she was after so much trouble proving her identity and so much preparation.

The corners of her eyes stung, and her stomach churned. Ángel not only looked like the man who lovingly raised her, he sounded just like him. And worse, they shared the same name.

Her mother warned her that this man, her father, would never care about her or why she existed. Maria Josefa was right, this man and her papá looked identical, but she was wrong about everything else. They were not the same at all. Her papá was caring, but this father in front of her was a criminal. A prisoner. Murderer. He’d taken multiple lives and was nothing like her papá.

What am I even doing here?

“I wouldn’t mind having some fun with your body,” he said as she turned on her heel, “just as I did with your mom. Although she was years younger than you then. She was what, uh, catorce? Si, si, she was fourteen. Oh, how good she felt.”

Celestina turned back, raising her bag. Because of this brute, she never knew a mother’s love. Because of him, both she and her mother suffered every day. She needed to hit him at least once to release years of pent-up anger. But the guard grabbed her arm.

“Time to go,” he said.

“¡Monstruo! I hope you die here!” She almost growled as the guard pulled her away.

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