In Loreto, Allan’s hands clamped around my throat like iron vices.
Behind me on the bed, in the dim light of my villa, Allan’s fingers locked tight—both hands squeezing, cutting off air, cutting off sound. For the first time in my life, raw terror flooded every nerve during what was supposed to be an intimate moment. Pure, animal fear: This man might actually kill me.
Maybe he wanted me gone—silenced forever—so his web of lies would stay buried. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t scream, couldn’t even process the betrayal in real time.
I told myself later it was must have been Viagra-fueled recklessness, a momentary loss of control. But deep down, something fractured.
My friends’’ words cut through the denial: This isn’t normal. This is violence.
The following month at that villa in El Sargento, the sunset peaking through hand-carved wood window frames, I forced the words out, voice shaking: “I was terrified when you choked me, Allan.”
He said nothing. Not a word. No apology, no denial, no flicker of remorse—just cold, hollow silence hanging between us like smoke.
If I had known then that he was already trying to rob Pamela Sue Martin—another layer of deceit, another betrayal—I would have never let myself be that vulnerable in his presence again.
That silence, that chokehold, that secret life still echos. What demons had he brought to our bed?
The next morning, “Kenno is sick, I need to go.”
I wonder what lie Allan told Pamela about where he was that night. “Business in Loreto?”
