She had to let go of her apartment. It hurt like a bitch, but what choice did she have?
The landlord agreed to sell her belongings and use the money as payment for what she owed. Whatever she had left would go toward legal fees.
Tracking down her missing Jeep was a lost cause. Not that it was worth much.
After paying the lawyer’s retainer fee, she was broke. That wasn’t even the worst of it.
Vera’s phone had been shut off, the number no longer in use. There was no way to contact her sister. No way to leave a message explaining her incarceration or how to reach her.
When she made the call to file a missing person’s report with the Ciudad Hueca police department, there was nothing left inside her.
The impatient detective on the other end of the phone made no promises to find Vera and no guarantees to call if her sister turned up, dead or alive.
It was up to her to stay on top of it, and she would.
Area Three was the quietest between the hours of three and four in the morning. That was when she showered.
She crept through the halls, stepping around inmates who had passed out after a night of drinking. In the community bathroom, she quickly stripped and washed in private.
She ate just enough to keep her body alive and spent the daylight hours studying her fellow residents. She lingered along the perimeter, trying to make herself unnoticeable while memorizing faces and eavesdropping on conversations.
Whenever someone approached her, she walked in the other direction. For the most part, the prisoners left her alone.
Except Garra.
He didn’t touch her, didn’t stare at her suggestively, and never mentioned his threat about collecting rent next week. But he was always nearby, following her around and talking in her ear.
“The law is here, protected by a wall.” He gestured at the two-story concrete enclosure surrounding the outdoor pound. “We are the law, not the government.”
She never spoke to him, but she always listened, committing every word to memory. He seemed to know everything about everyone, including her. He knew her name, where she lived, and what she’d been charged with.
There was no telling what else he’d gleaned about her. Did he know she’d been wrongfully imprisoned? Or that she was born and raised in this city? Or that her sister was missing and possibly connected to La Rocha Cartel?
Asking him questions would require her to be civil with him. Being civil meant accepting what he’d done to her.
She couldn’t stomach the sight of him, and she sure as hell wouldn’t depend on him for answers.
He crouched beside her where she sat on a cement bench. She didn’t look at him, didn’t react to his nearness, no matter how badly she wanted to cut off his dick.
“That one is no good.” He nodded at the men playing chess at a table on the far side of the yard. “The one with the barbed wire tattoo on his forehead. He’s a serial rapist with unconfirmed connections to over fifty missing women. Keep your distance.”
It wasn’t the first time he told her who she could trust and who she shouldn’t. Fucking ironic, coming from him.
What was he in prison for anyway? Drugs? Murder? Rape was the obvious answer.
As a resident of Area Three, he was also a member of the vicious La Rocha Cartel. Though, not everyone in here was on the same side.
During one of his one-sided conversations with her, she learned Jaulaso was run by La Rocha Cartel, the González Cartel, and three gangs. They all lived here, cohabiting in their numbered areas, all the while fighting over control of the prison.
It seemed peaceful now, with men standing around, sharing cigarettes, lifting weights, playing cards, and listening to music. But Garra said it could change in a heartbeat.
There were no police, military, or prison guards inside Area Three. Garra claimed everyone needed a gun here because at any moment, hell could break loose.
Two nights later, it did.
She woke to the sound of gunshots reverberating in her chest. The bursts boomed outside her cell, too loud, too goddamn close. Her blood ran cold.
She leaped out of bed as the frantic din of footsteps and shouting erupted in the hall. Bullets pinged against her door, knocking dust loose from the cracks in the ceiling.
The pauses between each gunshot grew shorter and less frequent, until all she heard was the constant report of full-blown magazines being emptied.
What the hell was going on? Why were they shooting at one another? Was this one of the cartel wars Garra had warned about?
The clothes on her body—jeans and a shirt—were all she had to her name. Everyone in here owned a gun except her. Not that she wanted one. But dammit, she might’ve felt brave enough to peek her head out if she had a weapon in her hands.