Page 126 of The Crowned Garza

I force down several gulps of ice-cold water. “How do you know I haven’t been gorging myself at work?”

“Because Iknowyou. When you’re upset, you’re upset with your entire being. You take strikes against yourself. Which is foolish, if you ask me.” She takes the almost empty bottle from me. “But the biggest giveaway is that you haven’t touched the Jackfruit in the fridge. I’d usually have to hide my portions from you whenever you’re here.”

Aunty Lynnette sent us Jackfruit? I wait for a cartwheeling reaction from my appetite, but…nothing. Not even my favorite fruit can get me out of this morose funk.

“I’m fine, Mom.” I slap my thighs and ass. “Got alotta fat I can live off of. Will last me a while.”

She fiddles with my stubborn flyaway curls, trying to force them to stay down with my low ponytail. “I’m sorry you’re hurting, baby. But just so you know, forgiveness is foryou,okay?”

“I’m not forgiving them.”

Before she can attempt to make a case for her favorite son and potential daughter-in-law, I peck her cheek then dart out the door.

AirPods in, Eminem on blast, I sprint out of Barefoot Runaway and through the quiet Pasadena neighborhood.

I run and run until my lungs hurt from being overworked. Until my thighs burn and I’m drenched in sweat. I stop, take a couple breaths, bring my heart rate down, and then I run some more.

When I’m all out of steam, I jog to a stop under a massive oak tree and double over, hands on knees, hustling for breath, feeling woozy.

I’m so focused on getting air in my lungs, on holding back from puking on the side of the road, on trying not to burst into tears, that I don’t register the van that squeals up next to me.

Not until strong arms grab me.

“What the…?”

“Get rid of all her jewelry and accessories first,” a gravelly voice orders from inside the van. “And her phone.”

At that, my necklace is ripped off and stomped on, my phone and fit watch smashed against the tree, and my AirPods plucked out and tossed.

There go all my trackers.Smart.

Once they’ve stripped me of every accessory, I’m thrown into the van, tires screeching against asphalt as the van speeds off.

Had I not been so winded from my run, so clouded with anger, so swollen with indignation, I might’ve put some effort into fighting back.

But I have nothing in me right now. Nothing at all. Not even the will to inquire why I’m being taken.

Without resistance, I let them cuff my hands and take me away.

~

BY THE TIMEmy blood has cooled, energy has returned to my veins, and my psyche has scrounged up some fucks to give, I’ve already been hauled to an underground basement of sorts—if the heavy traffic sounds above are any indication. Unpainted walls, stained cement floors, and a single naked bulb dangling precariously in one corner of the room.

Two Latino men play cards at a small table under the hanging bulb. At the other end of the room, a third man is leaned against the wall, swiping on his phone.

Slumped on the ground next to his feet, is me. Hands still cuffed behind me. My mouth isn’t taped or gagged, but I keep it shut for the time being and assess the three men.

Relaxed, unbothered, they seem to be waiting for something. An order, maybe. Directions. Which would mean they’re just foot soldiers or muscles for hire. The commander of this “master plan” isn’t here. Might be wrong, but I don’t get the sense I’m in any immediate danger at their hands.

Surreptitiously, I twist my wrists, testing.

Since the age of thirteen, my overprotective brothers trained me on how to extricate myself of various bindings. Cable ties, ropes, wires, handcuffs, duct tape… Some are more difficult than others and not at all possible to do quietly or unsuspectingly.

Luckily, I’m bound by handcuffs and they aren’t tight—the tighter they are, the smaller the chances of escaping them without something to pick it. These are somewhere in the middle, not loose, but not tight either. Which gives me confidence.

When there are no accessories to assist with jail-breaking handcuffs, it all comes down to coaxing the muscles to the flexibility of a wet noodle. And nothing about that is easy. It takesa lotof mental focus. If the brain is relaxed, as close to catatonic as possible, everything else will follow suit.

As time ticks on and the men lumber around the room with boredom, that’s what I focus on doing.