“She’s late on purpose,” I said quietly. “She likes to feel like she’s in control.”
Ramirez looked at me for a moment. “You’re taking too long,” he said.
I didn’t respond because waiting wasn’t the goal. Surviving was.
At 8:05, Andrés walked to the bank as if he owned the sidewalk. He was wearing the suit I had helped him choose, the “lucky” one. His hair was impeccably styled. His face wore that same smile that I had once loved, the one that made others trust him. Now it makes me sick.
She went through the revolving doors and headed straight to the international transfers counter. We looked through the glass. The cashier greeted him with professional courtesy. Andrés leaned forward and said something I couldn’t hear, but that I already knew. Urgent transfer. Caiman Account.
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