“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…”

conducting a silent, terrifying internal calculus. Finally, she nodded, a barely perceptible dip of her chin, under the strict condition that the door remain entirely open.

“I swear it,” I said.

I drew the bath, the steam carrying the soothing scent of chamomile. I laid out the yellow-striped towel on the closed toilet lid. Clara turned her back to continue reading …