“I adopted a sweet 7-year-old orphan, but while washing her back on the first night, I discovered a scar shaped like a notorious cartel symbol. My blood ran cold. I locked the bathroom door and secretly dialed 911, stuttering, ‘Send help, she isn’t who you think-‘ Before I could finish, she effortlessly shattered the heavy lock, grabbed the phone, and said…”

” I asked softly.

She didn’t look up. Her head gave a minute, sharp shake.

“Bars.”

A cold dread coiled tightly in my gut as I looked at the drawing, realizing the monumental task before me had only just begun. I had brought crayons to a prison break.

Chapter 2: The Geography of Fear

The drive to the apartment was suffocatingly quiet. Clara sat rigid in continue reading …