Page 125 of When Lies Unfold

I keep my gun trained in the direction the ball originated from, only to lock eyes with a small child no more than four years old.

He’s seated on the floor, his dark eyes peerin’ up at me with curiosity brimmin’ in the depths. It looks like somebody took a pair of dull scissors to his hair ’cause while it’s short, it falls in uneven lengths.

Riddled with holes and rips, his shirt may have originally been white, but it’s now a bland shade of brown.

A filthy black film—evident even with his dark skin tone—covers his little feet. As if that’s not bad enough, he’s malnourished as hell, his arms so thin, they’re just skin and bones.

The room’s empty aside from a heap of blankets on the cheap tile floor…which is likely where this little guy was hidin’ himself and went undetected.

I lower my gun and edge farther inside. The child blinks up at me, appearin’ undisturbed at seein’ my weapon. That alone pisses me off.

I tip my chin in the direction of the livin’ room, where the woman lies dead. “¿Es tú mamá?” Is that your mom?

He nods, his eyes never leavin’ mine.

“¿Dónde está tú papá?” Where’s your dad?

He shrugs, then visibly hesitates to speak before glancin’ around at my men. I wave my hand, silently commandin’ them to ease back.

Once they do, I holster my gun and bend my knees, bringin’ me eye to eye with the boy before I pose the question again.

When he shakes his head, I frown before the pieces start fallin’ into place. “¿No papá?” No dad?

He shakes his head again, confirmin’.

“¿Abuela? ¿Abuelo? ¿Alguien?” Grandma? Grandpa? Someone?

He shakes his head, and the pit of my stomach sinks.

Before I can rattle off another question, the boy’s barely there wisp of a voice reaches my ears—and I’m slammed with the realization that it’s a girl.

Each word and mannerism is cloaked with hesitance, her voice barely audible as though she’s terrified to speak. “¿Tienes algo de comida? Mamá dijo no puedo comer su comida porque soy fea y parezco a un niño.” Do you have some food? Mom said I can’t eat her food because I’m ugly and look like a boy.

Jesus Christ. Before I can respond, Gordo holds out his giant paw of a hand to the kid with a package of cheese crackers.

I glance at him with a The fuck did you get that from? look. He just shrugs and mutters under his breath about always needin’ a snack.

The kid rips open the package and shoves a whole cracker in her mouth, chewin’ frantically and eyein’ us as if we’re considerin’ takin’ the crackers away from her.

“The fuck are we gonna do with her?” I mumble this mostly to myself but partly to Gordo.

“Sure as shit can’t leave her here.” We watch the poor kid devour the package of crackers like she’s competin’ in a timed eatin’ contest.

I don’t wanna know how long it’s been since she had an actual meal.

One of my men materializes with a plastic cup of water and hands it to the girl whose mouth now has a slight orange outline.

Gordo turns to me and holds my gaze, our thoughts aligned. He’s the only one who witnessed the tail end of when I finally clawed my way out of the desolate abyss that had been my life.

I’d been a six-year-old boy abandoned by addict parents. My older sister and I had to fend for ourselves until she followed in their footsteps.

My survival consisted of food scraps people tossed in their makeshift compost piles. I’d bathed in rivers with one of those blue bars of laundry soap I’d stolen.

When you’re hungry and desperate, you’ll do anythin’ to evict that shit from your life. And that’s exactly what I did.

“Maldita sea.” I mutter, Damn it, under my breath, but I’m convinced it’s fate.

I don’t believe in a god, but I do believe the universe sets shit in our path for a reason. Maybe I can do somethin’ good for a change.

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