Page 158 of Forbidden Fate

“I know.”

I nod, swallowing around the lump in my throat. “Thank you.”

“Take a few minutes if you need them.”

I look around the room.

The tissues. The water bottle. The phone. The chair where I cried so hard my ribs still ache.

Do I need a few minutes?

No.

I need three days of sleep, a shower, my own clothes, my family’s arms around me, and the ability to erase the last three days.

“I’m ready,” I say.

The embassy staff helps me through the next steps. Temporary documents. Security. More gentle questions. More careful faces. I answer what I can. I omit what I can’t yet say aloud.

Then I’m outside again.

Panic flares inside me.

I feel exposed. The sky is too wide. The street too full of moving parts. A car waits for us. It’s a black SUV with tinted windows. Luxurious. A far cry from Señora Valentina’s borrowed vehicle or the stolen car Cruz hotwired.

Cruz.

I wipe his name from my mind as I get into the car.

The ambassador sits beside me in the back seat. Another man drives.

We pull away from the embassy.

The driver says something, and the ambassador translates.

“La Candelaria,” he tells me. “The historic district.”

I turn my head toward the window.

La Candelaria.

People walk along the streets. Students with backpacks. Vendors. Tourists with cameras. A woman carrying flowers wrapped in paper. A man pushing a cart.

Normal life.

We continue through the city. Later the driver gestures and speaks again.

“He’s pointing out the Cerros Orientales,” the ambassador says.

I follow his gaze.

Mountains rise along the eastern border of the city.

Another tear slips down my cheek. I wipe it away quickly, but the ambassador notices.

He says nothing.

Thank God.