My name is Leonor Vargas , and I’m 68 years old.
That afternoon, I was folding summer clothes into an old but sturdy blue suitcase, humming a song that was playing on the radio. The next day I was traveling to Puerto Vallarta , my first real getaway since my husband, Gabriel , died . The apartment was spotless, the plants watered, everything in order. For the first time in a long time, there was nothing to worry about.
Then the phone rang zaml
It was Alejandra , my daughter-in-law. From the first second I knew something was wrong. Her voice was trembling, not from nerves, but from fear.
—Mom, trust me. Put a hidden camera in the living room and leave the apartment. Don’t ask questions. Just leave.
I thought she was joking. Alejandra was always prudent, careful, never exaggerated. But her ragged breathing chilled me to the bone.
“Please,” she whispered. “You’ll understand tomorrow. Don’t tell Rafael anything.”
And he hung up.
