Page 95 of Drawn Blue Lines

Holding up my phone, I pointed to the dusty road to my right. “The GPS says this is it. Turn here.”

Giving the wheel a sharp turn, Brody grumbled, “I don’t see why we’re bothering an old woman who may or may not have given birth to this asshole. We should be going back to Guadalajara and tracking down—”

“Tracking down my ex,” I finished for him, rubbing my temples in frustration. “I know, you’ve said it six times already.” It was the same argument we’d had for the last hour, but apparently, one he wasn’t about to let die.

“You’d think maybe after the first couple of times, some common sense would’ve gotten through to you.”

I didn’t have time for this. We already went to Guadalajara. We searched for Cristiano. We threatened, I begged. No one was letting us into that club in the middle of the day. He wasn’t answering his phone, and I couldn’t waste any more time. When you had a smoking gun in your hand, you didn’t tuck it away to search for the missing bullet. You went straight to the hand that fired it.

Besides, he called Val before we left the club, and he had already deployed a swarm of Carrera soldiers before they ended the call.

“Would you stop with that? I’m not accusing him of anything until I have proof. You’re a damn lawyer. Aren’t people innocent until proven guilty?”

Brody squeezed the steering wheel. “If it looks like a duck, swims like a duck, and quacks like a duck, it’s—”

I glared at him. “It’s not a fucking chicken. I know. I’ve heard this one already. Get new jokes.” He didn’t answer, and I didn’t elaborate. “We’re here,” I announced as a tiny house came into view.

With the papers in hand, we walked in silence along an overgrown walkway toward the front door. I knocked twice, drawing the ferocious barks of what sounded like extremely large dogs. “¿Señora Vergara, estás en tu casa?” Miss Vergara, are you home?

The dogs kept barking, but no one answered.

Brody sighed, the lines around his eyes deepening. “See? She’s not here, can we go now?” Just as he turned around, a frail voice filtered out from behind the door.

“¿Quién está ahí?” Who is there?

I grabbed his arm, pulling him back and continued in Spanish. “Miss Vergara, my name is Adriana, and this is my friend, Brody. We have a few questions we’d like to ask you. It won’t take much of your time.”

“Go away!”

I pounded on the door again. “Miss Vergara, please. This is important. It’s about your son, Ignacio.”

There was a moment of tense silence before a makeshift curtain rustled against a window beside the door. I held my breath as a weathered face appeared. “I know no Ignacio.”

That was a lie. I saw it in her eyes when she said his name. I didn’t wish this woman harm, but I wasn’t leaving without the answers I came for.

Pulling out the birth certificate, I turned it around and slammed it against the window. “I think you do.”

She raised a shaking hand, tracing the handwritten words. “Where did you get that?”

“In a safe deposit box belonging to Esteban Muñoz. I know you know who he is, just like you knew Pablo and Carmen Muñoz. Now you can let us in, or I have no problem standing out here all day.”

The old woman’s hand dropped, her dark eyes alight with renewed fire. “I’ll call the police.”

It was the response I anticipated. “You do that,” I challenged, pulling the certificate away from the window. “I’d love to tell them how your son hunted me then chained me up like a dog. Or how he’s the one rebuilding the Muñoz Cartel.” She jumped as I slapped my palm against the glass. “How many people do you think you’ll have at your door then, Rosita?”

The curtain fell, and she disappeared. I couldn’t breathe. My lungs felt too small, and the air too thick.

Brody placed his hand on my shoulder and gave it a firm squeeze. “Adriana, it’s okay.”

“No, it’s not okay! She can’t just—”

There was a soft click, and we both turned as the wrinkled face from the window appeared in the doorway. “Come, I’ll put the dogs away.”

Ten minutes later, Brody and I sat on a stained floral couch in a pathetically bare house. A few pictures hung on what was probably once vibrant orange walls, and a small square table sat tucked in the corner covered in a serape.

That was it.

A door opened near the kitchen area, and she made her way toward us, the battered cane she gripped in her gnarled hand scraping along the dusty floor. Lowering herself into a rickety chair, she settled a hesitant eye on me and waited.

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