Chapter 3
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Julia
Sleep refuses to come after overhearing Mom and Dad's conversation. I toss and turn all night, my mind racing with ways to help, but that kind of money doesn't materialize overnight.
Por Dios, not even in a year.
As a couple of days pass without Mom mentioning it again, I try burying the memory. Maybe Dad worked something out—payment plans or some work arrangement with whomever he owes.
After dinner, Mom hurries my sisters upstairs for bath time, leaving Dad and me alone in the kitchen. The twelve-year age gap between me and my six-year-old twin sisters comes with one advantage: adult conversations happen out of their earshot.
I reach across the table, my hand covering his. "You okay, Papá?"
My father's weathered hands contrast with his usual pressed shirt and beige pants. My sisters are his miniature copies—same greenish-brown eyes, same mischievous smile and wrinkle of their nose when they don’t like something.
I, however, carry my mother's features: glossy black waves, fuller lips than I'd prefer, olive skin, and a lean frame.
Mom never had the curves typically associated with Latina women, always tall and model thin.
"Ahora sí," he answers, giving me the same tender look he reserves for when all "his girls" are together.
Though I don't share his appearance, our bond runs deeper than the one he shares with my sisters, and I know when he’s trying to hide something from me.
"Tell me how I can help," I whisper, ears alert for Mom's footsteps.
Concern flashes across his face, realization dawning that I overheard them.
"Julia, forget about that conversation. I'll figure something out." His tone leaves no room for argument.
Pressure builds in my chest because that amount is impossible to gather or “figure out.” Puerto Vallarta might be peaceful and touristy, but people willing to collect debts by force exist everywhere.
My throat tightens at the thought of someone hurting him, and my expression must betray me, because he sighs.
"It'll be fine, mi amor," he says, and I wish I could believe him.
Mom's voice breaks the moment, calling me upstairs to help with Lupe, who's apparently testing if ballerinas can dance underwater.
I find Mom nearly soaked while Lupe giggles uncontrollably. Amalia massages shampoo into her curls, ignoring her twin's performance. They may be identical twins, but telling them apart comes naturally to me when their personalities are so different.
Both sport chocolate curls, hazel eyes, and Dad's warm smile, but Amalia is the studious one, while Lupe will sing her lungs out to make you smile.
"Julia, help Amalia wash up. I've got a dancer here driving me crazy." Mom tries to sound stern, but amusement colors her words. My sisters are literal sunshine; staying mad at them for more than ten seconds is impossible.
One wet shirt, a puddle on the bathroom floor, and two pajama-clad munchkins later, I collapse on my bed.
Tomorrow's history exam looms over me, but who can think of studying with everything that’s going on. The thought of waking early to study pulls a frustrated groan from my throat. I should change clothes, but exhaustion wins.
?
I'm not sure if I've been sleeping or just dozing when the sound of breaking glass jolts me awake.
My eyes struggle to focus as I peer out the window, the world outside still cloaked in darkness.
I strain to listen, heart pounding against my ribs. Just as I'm about to dismiss it, Mom's scream tears through the night, my hand flying to my mouth to trap my own cry.
The girls.
All I can think about is getting to the twins and making sure they’re safe. My parents’ bedroom is downstairs, but the twins’ room is right next to mine, tucked away at the top of the stairs.
Muévete, Julia.
Every step I take sends my pulse pounding in my ears, my breath caught high in my throat. I silently beg every saint I can remember that the old floorboards won’t betray me now.
At my door, I press my palm against the wood and ease it open, barely daring to breathe. Strange voices float up from below, low and unfamiliar, punctuated by the heavy thud of footsteps moving through the house, people rifling through drawers and cabinets.
I slip out into the hallway, careful to leave my own door ajar so it won’t squeak, the darkness pressing in as I inch closer to the twins, praying I’m not too late.
When I push their bedroom door open, two terrified pairs of eyes lock onto mine.
Of course they heard Mom's scream.
"Hey, we need to get out of here," I whisper as Amalia moves toward me in her yellow koala pajamas.
"Lupe, come on," I murmur, carefully sliding their window open.
Please let these guys be the only ones who came. Please don't let anyone be waiting outside.
Amalia's small fingers wrap around mine, but when I glance back, Lupe remains curled up in bed.
I guide Amalia to her sister's side and kneel beside the bed.
"Lupe, bad men are downstairs. We need to leave. Now, conejita," I whisper, the nickname fitting how she's burrowed under her blanket.
"What if Mom needs us?" Tears glisten in her eyes.
Between the twins, Amalia always thinks with her head, while Lupe leads with her heart.
"I'll come back for her. Promise."
No way I won't return to help them. Even if it's stupid and I’m sure they would want me out of this house and as far away as possible from these men.
But first, I need the girls out of this house. Then I'll figure out what the hell to do.
"Please, Lupe," I plead, and finally, her tiny hand slips into mine.
Something crashes downstairs again, and I know it's time to get them the hell out of here. Who knows how long before these men realize we're upstairs.
It's about ten feet down, but the girls' room has a balcony. If I hang from it first, I could jump down and catch them after.
Okay. You can do this, Julia.
"I'll wait below and you'll jump into my arms, está claro?" I whisper, watching terror flash across their identical faces.
Honestly, I'm not sure if I can make the jump either, but right now, the alternative is too horrifying to consider.
"Lupe, you'll go first. Amalia, you'll follow. It'll be like a game," I force my lips into what must be the most unconvincing smile ever.
They don't respond, but I can't jump with them on my back. One wrong move and we'd all get hurt.
I swing my legs over the steel railing surrounding the balcony, my arm muscles burning as I lower myself down.
The moment my feet dangle into emptiness, my throat tightens. Looking down, I’d guess it's about six feet to the ground. Not deadly, but my joints won't thank me.
One. Two. Thud.
I swallow any sound as pain shoots through my ankles. But I made it. Shaking my hands out, I look up.
Lupe's already hanging from those same steel bars. Always the brave one.
In seconds, she lets go and lands in my arms, nearly knocking us both backward.
"You okay, coneja?" I ask, scanning her quickly. She seems fine.
She just nods.
When I look up, I spot Amalia frozen in the shadows, her wide eyes fixed on me. Dios mío, not now.
“Amalia,” I whisper, barely more than a breath, reaching for her and guiding her with gentle hands.
She hesitates, then slowly starts to maneuver herself behind the balcony railing. My heart twists. Lupe’s always been the athletic one; Amalia’s small and cautious, and I can only pray she doesn’t get hurt trying to climb down.
Time stretches painfully thin as she edges her way over the bars, inch by inch. Her tiny hands grip the cold steel, knuckles white.
“No puedo,” she whispers, her voice so soft and fragile it nearly shatters me. I can’t . Just two words, but the fear in them cuts straight through me.
I want to scream. I want to break down and sob. I’m asking my six-year-old sister to jump from a balcony—of course she’s terrified.
“Amalia,” I say, forcing my voice to stay calm and steady, “close your eyes and let go. I promise I’ll catch you. I’ll always catch you, nena.” I can’t let her hear the fear in me. She needs to believe I’m unbreakable, just for this moment.
"Amalia, hurry up." Lupe's voice cuts through the darkness, and I squeeze my eyes shut. Not exactly what you want to hear when you're about to drop from six feet.
A gunshot cracks through the night. Lupe lets out a small scream, and Amalia's hands slip from shock. She falls awkwardly, but I catch her, my ankle twisting underneath me. Perfect.
I'm okay. I'm okay.
I repeat this to myself because if I think about who that bullet was meant for, I'll lose what little composure I have left.
Grabbing both their hands, I run. Our yard connects to a neighbor's house about two hundred yards away. My ankle throbs with each step, begging me to scream, but I push the pain down. Not now. Almost there . The twins pant beside me, struggling to keep up.
I spot Mrs. Marta's house and nearly collapse with relief when we reach it. I knock on the door as the girls look at me with questions swimming in their eyes.
A minute later, Mrs. Marta appears in a powder-pink bathrobe. Confusion transforms to concern the moment she sees us.
"Julia, what happened?" Her tone borders on panic.
She knows I wouldn't be here unless something is wrong.
"Someone's in our house. Can you please stay with the twins?" I'm almost breathless, only now realizing how the sprint affected me too.
"Someone at your place? Of course, but, Julia, did you call the police?" The mention of police makes me realize I haven't.
Damn it. My first thought was getting the girls out.
"No, could you call them, please? I need to make sure my parents are okay," I say, looking into my sisters' eyes. So much light, so much love in them.
"Julia, estás loca?" The old woman's voice pulls my gaze from the girls. I'm not crazy, but all I can think about is getting back to my parents.
"What?" I ask, confused.
"How can you go back alone? What if those men hurt you?" Her words carry a tone that tells me what I'm planning is the stupidest thing she's ever heard. I glance at Lupe and see my promise reflected in her gaze.
"I have to go back for them," I say, releasing the twins' hands.
I kneel to their level, looking at both of them.
"You'll listen to Mrs. Marta, understand?"
They both nod and my heart threatens to burst with how much I love them.
"Julia, please," Mrs. Marta's voice pleads.
"Call the police, please," I tell her as I turn back toward my house.
I barely make it ten steps before turning back to Mrs. Marta, still standing in the doorway, holding the hands of two souls looking at me like they're saying goodbye.
I don't know why this thought makes my heart clench. Maybe my subconscious already knows I won’t return, but I find myself shouting, "We have an uncle! Uncle Felipe in Mexico City!" before sprinting toward the house now swallowed by darkness.
I'm just yards from entering our yard when an explosion shatters my world.
My home—where mom and dad threw birthday parties, where dad taught me to dance, where the twins performed karate demonstrations—erupts into flames.
A cry of agony tears from my throat as my lungs seize. I run toward the house, but the heat hits my face and neck like a wall.
"MOM! DAD!" I scream, praying for any response.
I’m not sure how long I stay like that, but behind me, laughter cuts through the roar of flames, the voice raising goosebumps along my arms.
"Looks like our lucky day, compadre."
As I start to turn toward the source, all I manage to see is a flash of a grin and a glinting gold tooth—then, suddenly, something strikes me hard on the top of my head, and my world is engulfed by darkness.