Page 26 of Liar

He lifts his gun and points it at my head.

Did my parents see the same thing? Raised guns cocked and ready to steal their lives away? The thought infuriates me.

“Bully,” I hiss. “Terrorizing the innocent. How. Dare. You.”

“Please. Don’t. I’ll have the shovels by next week.”

The manager’s promise seems to satisfy the other Z22. But this was all over shovels? They came marching in here and shot up the place over an order of garden tools?

El Calaca isn’t backing down. “I dare, puta. I fucking dare.”

I glare at him, recklessly brave. Men like him get off on fear, and I refuse to give him what he wants.

The other Z22 shakes his head. “Shoot her and everyone will know. That kid escaped, remember? Let’s go. Words probably out that we’re here.” He waves at us. “Keep your mouths shut or we’ll murder your entire goddamn family. We’ll be back in a week for our merchandise.”

El Calaca jerks his gun. “Boom,” he snickers, like he’s fired a bullet into my skull. “Remember this face,” he warns me. “Because I’m going to remember yours.”

The two Z22s exit the Superama.

I glance down at the little girl, who’s staring up at me like I’m her hero.

I touch her cheek, refusing to think about how I was a little girl once just like her, and no one stepped in to help my family.

7

The door handle rattles, and I give into the anxious anticipation I’ve kept at bay for over an hour. I spring off the sofa as Diego enters our house, prepared to share what happened at the Superama and worried about how he’s going to take the news.

“Hola.” He greets me with a raised eyebrow.

I wring my hands together while he removes his leather jacket, grabs a beer from the kitchen refrigerator, and returns to plop himself down on the sofa, as if he doesn’t have a care in the world when my distress couldn’t be any more obvious. Except, as he speaks, it’s clear he’s misread the cause.

“Before you lay into me, hear me out. As your older brother, I think you should seriously consider applying for late admission to colleges abroad.”

My jaw drops.

The devil sits sipping his beer, like his request bears as much weight as him requesting I sort his whites into a separate laundry pile. My brother couldn’t care less about how his clothes get washed, faded, grayish-white T-shirt and all. But if he believes I’d give up my dance career, my lavandería, and the only place I consider home, tequila worms must be eating away at his brain. My life is married to Loreto, for better or for worse.

“I’ll consider it.” I settle down onto the cushion beside him.

Diego blinks in surprise.

“One. Two. Three. Done. Loreto Dance Academy it is.” Winning Nacionalesnever seemed so important. Money matters, and my brother can’t argue against a four year, tuition-free scholarship. I decide then and there that, as worried as I am about El Calaca targeting other innocent people, my lips will remain sealed about what happened at the Superama. Diego will never give up if he finds out.

“You look tired.” I change the subject. “Cartel life not agreeing with you?”

Diego rolls his eyes. “Here we go.”

“The Bastard is keeping you busy. Peacekeeping must be hard work.”

“It is when each cartel boss has his or her own agenda.” My brother drinks deeply from his beer.

“Really? The ink on the treaty is barely dry.”

He snorts. “Yeah, really.”

I shake my head in disappointment. The funny thing is, in a matter of weeks, we townsfolk have grown used to the peace and quiet. Like it’s always been this way. Like everyone has short-term memory loss and that the shock of daily gunfire never happened. And now, according to my brother, peace hangs by a thread.

“It’s hard to teach an old dog new tricks.”