Around three in the afternoon, she arrived at her childhood colonia on the outskirts of the city. Rundown businesses, rugged streets, and a few trees encircled the tiny, concrete-block house where she and Vera were raised.
Between the two of them, Vera had been closer to their mother. When they lost their only parent to heart disease five years ago, Vera kept the house.
That was about the time Vera started her downward spiral into trouble.
Tula parked in front of her childhood home and leaned over the steering wheel, inspecting the empty street and surrounding houses. No one lingered around the property. No gunfire nearby or in the distance.
It hadn’t always been this unsafe. She left home at age eighteen, and in the ten years she’d been in the states, Ciudad Hueca had grown chaotically. Its tax revenue went to Mexico City, and not much came back. Law enforcement rationed gasoline and bullets. Basic infrastructure—schools, roads, sewers, parks—went to shit.
The city was in a state of disrepair, much like the sagging roof of her childhood home.
She grabbed the pepper spray, her purse, and the house key she still kept on her keyring. Then she bolted to the front door.
The key turned the lock, and she stepped in without knocking. “Hello? Vera?”
Silence hit her, along with the usual weight of nostalgia.
Good times. Bad times. No major tragedy. Just the usual poverty and a mother who was anxious to get Tula grown up and moved out. One less mouth to feed.
She made a quick sweep through the sitting room, kitchen, and two bedrooms before confirming what she already knew.
Her sister wasn’t home.
Despite Vera’s haphazard approach to life, she maintained a tidy, clutter-free house. Not a single dirty dish in the sink. No dust on the furniture or cobwebs in the corners. Nothing lying around to indicate where she was.
With a sigh, Tula called her again.
No answer.
“Shit.” She stared at the front door, tapping the phone against her chin.
Vera usually had a job, but never a steady one. She bounced through employers as fast as she went through boyfriends. If she was at work, Tula didn’t know where that was.
Over the next ten minutes, she dared a walk outside, knocking on neighboring houses. Three doors opened for her, and all the responses were consistent.
No one had seen Vera in weeks.
Panic set in.
Why would she tell Tula to drive here, if she wasn’t home? Where the fuck did she go?
Indecision sent her pacing through the house, rifling through drawers, and digging in closets. The hunt for clues led nowhere.
“Fuck!” She lowered to the couch and squeezed her fingers around the phone.
Should she leave? What if Vera was on her way here? Maybe she was staying with a new boyfriend and lost her phone after the call dropped this morning?
“Damn you, Vera.” Tula slumped deeper into the couch and waited.
And waited.
Three hours later, the sun dipped low on the horizon, signaling the darkness to come.
Vera still wasn’t answering the phone. Tula must’ve left over fifty voicemail messages.
She couldn’t risk being caught in the city after nightfall.
Time to go.
Nervous energy trembled through her as she opened the freezer in the kitchen and hid some money in a carton of ice cream. Vera would eventually call, and Tula would tell her where to find the cash.
She kept two-hundred dollars, stuffing the bills into her back pocket, in case she needed it on the drive home.
Then she left.
Taking the shortest route to the U.S. border, she itched to hit the gas and speed as fast as the Jeep would go. But she forced herself to drive the speed limit and keep a low profile through the rougher parts of the city.
Signs of violence and strife haunted every corner. Roadside memorials, flowers, and lit candles marked sites of death. Young men gathered under awnings, buying and selling drugs. Girls, too young to be out after dark, solicited sex on every street.
These people were survivors. She didn’t judge them, but she also didn’t trust them.
She didn’t trust the local police, either.
The Mexican military had been brought in to put a stop to the cartels and the drug war. But they were all part of the corruption.
Everyone and anyone could’ve been a target. If a police officer decided to pull her over, she would be at his mercy.
As she drove through the heart of the city, she spotted a sedan with tinted windows in the rear-view mirror a few cars back.
Was that the same sedan that was behind her when she left Vera’s house? Her pulse sprinted into a gallop.
Stop it. You’re just paranoid.
Following the GPS on her phone, she veered down a side street.
The sedan turned with her.
Her heart thrashed in her ears, and a hot lump formed in her throat.
Why would anyone trail her? She was a nobody schoolteacher from Phoenix, driving a worthless hunk of metal.