Adrenaline returned to her body, energizing sore muscles and injecting life into her blood. Her heart pumped harder, and her hands clenched in the shackles.
By the time the soldiers dragged her into the crowded halls of the prison, she had enough strength to walk on her own.
The man who booked her led her into a small room with a table and two chairs. He left her there alone, without an explanation or a fuck you.
Shivering on the verge of hysteria, she huddled into the metal chair and tried to make sense of what was happening.
Mistaken identity?
That must’ve been the reason for her arrest. The military had followed her from Vera’s house, after all.
She and Vera were only two years apart in age. They shared the same last name, black hair, brown eyes, slender build, and golden complexion. They looked similar.
She couldn’t blame her sister for this. The Mexican military fucked up. When they realized Tula didn’t know anything, they covered their mistake by framing her.
She was in Jaulaso because of corruption.
What happened to her last night was too overwhelming to process right now. She compartmentalized it, shoved it all down and out of reach.
But she couldn’t do anything about the coldness inside her, the deadened sensation in her brain, and her inability to react or function normally. She was in a severe state of shock.
Her gaze drifted to the clock on the wall, and she attempted to calculate the timeline since she’d crossed the border. How long had she been unconscious?
The sandpaper feel of her tongue suggested dehydration, but hunger pangs hadn’t set in yet.
It felt like she’d been arrested days ago, though she must’ve only been detained for one night. Everything hurt. Her body was unresponsive to simple commands, her motor functions clumsy and zapped of life.
After doing some painful guesswork in her head, she estimated she’d been tortured in that room for eight hours.
She lost another two hours waiting at that table before the door finally opened.
A white-haired, pudgy man lumbered in, wearing a wrinkled collared shirt and a crooked tie.
“I’m the U.S. consular here in Ciudad Hueca,” he said without preamble and sat across from her.
“They tortured me.” Her voice shivered beneath a strained whisper, and she cleared her ravaged throat. “The military… They…they electrocuted…” She couldn’t even say it out loud.
“I’m sorry, but we don’t have jurisdiction here in Mexico.”
She was empty. Numb. Barely alive. “I need to get a message to my sister.”
After he wrote down Vera’s contact information, he explained her rights in a bored, repetitive tone.
“How do I end this?” A tear slipped down her cheek.
“Declare yourself guilty. Accept the charges. That’ll give you the best chance to transfer to the states and conclude your sentence in the U.S.”
“Conclude my sentence? That’s my best-case scenario?”
“Yes.” He rubbed his bulbous nose.
“I’m innocent.”
What would happen to her job? Her American citizenship?
He arched a brow and tossed her a that’s-what-they-all-say look. “Your other option is to fight for your innocence in Mexico.”
That was the right thing to do. The only option.
“Okay.” She might not have been thinking clearly, but she knew she would never plead guilty to a crime she didn’t commit. “I’ll prove my innocence.”
“Fine.” His voice drawled with an unnerving lack of care or compassion. “I’ll help if I can, but these things take time.”
“How much time?”
“Years.”
“No. Impossible.” Her breathing accelerated. “I’m innocent. I’ll be out of here in a month. Two months at most.”
“Good luck with that.” He heaved from the chair, grabbed his briefcase, and walked to the door without looking back. “I’ll be in touch.”“We have a new one!” The prison guard shoved Tula through the sweaty, packed halls of Jaulaso. “Hot, fresh meat.”
Did he really just announce that?
The blatant leering of filthy men pulled her chin to her chest. She folded her arms around her midsection, eyes on the floor, and focused on putting one foot in front of the other.
The lack of strength in her legs made her stagger, her muscles achy and skin feverish as dozens of inmates whistled and screamed vulgarities at her.
Frailty trembled through her and hitched her shoulders around her ears. Tears hit the backs of her eyes, but she refused to cry. She was still standing, still walking on her own. As long as she didn’t fall, maybe she would make it to the safety of her cell in one piece.
The immediate future squeezed a fist around her throat. Until she proved her innocence, she would have to fight for her life, every second of every day, and that fight started now.
The scent of vomit clung to her hair, but the air in the hallway smelled worse. The pungency of urine, feces, and body odor polluted every inhale, making her eyes water beyond her need to sob.
The corridor was so crowded she had to step over half-naked people and weave around piles of garbage and discarded clothes.