“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…”

door. Slower and louder than a neighbor. Heavier than a delivery driver.

Clara lunged forward, her wet, soapy hands clamping onto my wrist with desperate, bruising force.

“It’s them,” she whispered, her eyes wide with a terror that seemed to age her a decade in a single second.

Chapter 3: The Breach

The air in the apartment turned to lead. The person in continue reading …