Page 24 of Liar

“What kind of business?” I ask, curious. Eduardo never discusses his family, and I realize there’s very little I know about him.

His reply is quick. “A used-car dealership.”

I resist the urge to laugh, his explanation is ludicrous. Eduardo selling used cars is like Diego pedaling hand-spun cloth baby diapers. Not a good fit. Period. I wonder about his parents. He never talks about them, and because he lives with his aunt and is being bullied by his uncle, I assume they’re deceased.

I spin around on the sidewalk, not wanting to ruin the evening. “I agree to adding more footwork into the choreography.”

His smile says it all.

“Why not? Your feet sing during the coordinated sets. It’ll add interest to the performance.”

Eduardo stands a bit straighter from the praise. But everything changes when he peers past me. “Mierda.”

Without explanation, I’m grabbed by the arm and dragged into an alleyway wedged between two buildings.

“What’s wrong?” I demand.

“Later. Come on.” He hurries us on the dirt path. Halfway down, I glance over my shoulder but don’t see anyone behind us. Whoever set him on this fast-track toward the next block over isn’t following us.

When we break clear of the buildings, he asks me, “Can you find your way home? I’ve got to do something.”

I frown.

“Who are you avoiding, Eduardo?”

He doesn’t answer my question. But his panicked expression says it all. “Catch up with you at practice. See you later, Luciana.” Turning on his heel, he races off.

I watch him go, puzzled by his behavior.

I move to go but something causes me to glance back toward the alleyway. My heart skips a beat as I spy the shadowy shape of a man at the other end.

He’s too far away to see me clearly, and vice versa. Except my sixth sense—along with Eduardo’s erratic behavior—tells me this man is bad news.

I don’t wait around to find out. And Eduardo has some explaining to do. Specifically, why he lied about his uncle’s used-car dealership and how, for being new to Loreto and having such an innocent, lost-boy disposition, he’s made an enemy.

6

It was a foolish dream that peace in Loreto would last. What hurts more than anything is the fact that gunfire has broken out in the very same place my parents were killed—the Superama.

It’s late. I finished work and hurried into the market a few minutes before closing to pick up fresh eggs and milk. I’m in an aisle wedged between stacks of pigeon peas and masa flour when shots ring out one aisle over.

I’m slow to process, like an extra in a Mexican telenovela who has forgotten her mark and ending up in the wrong place at the wrong time. My eyes lock on the teenage boy in the aisle with me, my disbelief mirrored in his own shocked expression.

It took two years for me to return to the Superama. Every turnip, every bag of rice, every grocery bag earmarked for the local shelter, a memory of what happened to my parents.

“You gone loco?” a man shouts. “Put the gun away.”

I cover my head when more shots are fired, causing ceiling tiles to cascade down on us.

“You done?”

“For the moment,” the gunman answers.

“Let’s find the store manager before he escapes out the back door.”

“He better not, if he knows what’s good for him.”

Hurried footsteps accompany me to the back of the market. This is followed by more shouting. “Where are you hiding, compadre?”