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But eventually, after a stopover in Mexico City and another five hours of hellish turbulence, we arrived at San Diego airport. I had remained largely mute for the rest of the first flight and the second flight, only responding if questioned by Murphy or a flight attendant. Inside me, nineteen capsules full of cocaine churned along with my rising panic. Murphy knew. He knew about my son, and he was using the knowledge of Luis’s existence against me.
He had found my Achilles heel.
The power he held over me, in a crinkled-up photograph from the locket around my neck, meant he could ask me to do almost anything, and I’d have to do as he wished.
At San Diego airport we walked past a sign, ‘Welcome to the United States of America’, and my heart contracted painfully as I remembered my conversation with Este only the night before, moments before he was shot. How he had been so sure we would make it together. Start a new life, away from my father and the cartel.
It made me wish I’d died with him.
I walked as slowly as I could through customs, but they didn’t give me a second glance. I dragged my feet as we made our way to the parking lot, lagging well behind Murphy. He seemed confident that I wouldn’t run — he barely turned around to check I was still behind him. But eventually we arrived at a sleek black BMW, and I was ordered inside while Murphy packed the luggage in the trunk.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said, as he slid into the driver’s seat. He slipped on a pair of aviators and gave my thigh a squeeze. ‘I’ll play nice if you do.’
I didn’t answer him. Instead, I pressed my forehead to the window and swallowed back my grief as the place of my dreams became the place of nightmares.
* * *
As soon as we reached the motel, I rushed to the bathroom. I’d started experiencing intense cramps, and I needed to get the pellets out of me before they ruptured.
Murphy laughed as he settled into a recliner.
‘What’s so funny?’ I demanded.
He shrugged. ‘Oh, nothing.’
I was about to close the bathroom door, but then something occurred to me. Feeling the blood rise in my cheeks, I turned back towards Murphy, who had cracked a beer. I had no idea where he’d gotten it from.
‘Don’t I need a . . .’
He raised his eyebrows mockingly, tilting his head. ‘A . . .?’
Bastard. ‘A strainer, or a bowl or something,’ I said through gritted teeth.
He sniggered, taking a swig of his Corona. ‘Flush ’em,’ he said.
I must have looked stunned, because he burst out laughing. ‘Your face!’ he said, spitting some of his beer out as he laughed.
I shifted uncomfortably. ‘I have nineteen pellets of cocaine in my stomach, and you want me to flush them down the toilet? Emilio will kill me! What is so funny?’
Murphy settled down enough to take a breath between all the laughing. ‘Cornflour,’ he said, wiping a tear from his cheek as he rocked back in his chair.
My stomach growled as if on cue. ‘Cornflour?’ I repeated dumbly.
‘You just smuggled in about fifteen pesos worth of pure cornflour. You could sell it and buy yourself a taco.’ His face said he thought he was hilarious.
I clenched my jaw. ‘I don’t believe you. Get Emilio on the phone. I want to hear him say it himself.’
His mouth returned to a sneer, but he got his phone out, and dialled.
‘Boss,’ he said. ‘We’re at the motel. The little girl doesn’t want to flush the junk.’
Emilio said something on the other end that I couldn’t catch, and Murphy tossed it to me. I caught it, surprising myself, and put it to my ear.
‘Yes?’ I said, keeping my voice monotone.
‘You have my permission to get rid of the pellets,’ Emilio said smoothly. ‘You are not required to keep them for me.’
Anger flashed inside me and I tamped down the desire to start smashing things. I made my free hand into a fist and squeezed it as hard as I could.
