“The subscriber you are trying to reach is unavailable,” the automated voice chirped.
I cursed out loud, drawing stares from an elderly couple sitting across from me. I dialed again. Voicemail. I sent a barrage of texts. Lucy, please answer me. What envelope? Lucy, I’m sorry. Please.
Nothing. Only the cold, gray ellipses of a conversation that had reached its terminal point.
Driven by a toxic cocktail of adrenaline and terror, I sprinted out of the hospital, leaving Valerie and David’s baby behind. I didn’t care about the five-million-dollar condo in Brickell. I didn’t care about the SUV. I didn’t care about the looks of disgust from the hospital staff. I needed to get to my house. I needed to find that envelope.
The drive from the hospital to the upscale residential district of Guadalajara felt like a fever dream. I pushed my Mercedes to its absolute limit, running two red lights, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
