Liliana POV
Mexico. Some nameless, dust-choked little town that smelled like diesel, cheap soap, and desperation.
The motel room was the kind that charged by the week and still felt like it was cheating you: thin walls, a mattress that sagged in the middle, a bathroom that never quite got the mildew smell out no matter how hard you scrubbed.
I was curled on that stained mattress when my phone lit up with a new photo.
I opened it.
My pupils blew wide.
A girl, eyes bound tight with black cloth, wrists and ankles secured with what looked like zip ties, background a messy vehicle interior, scuffed seats, a half-empty water bottle rolling on the floor. Even like that, even half-hidden and probably already bruising, I knew that face.
I’d know it in the dark. I’d know it if someone burned
