17
The kitchen had a green lino floor, and there was an oilcloth on the table that was printed with blown roses. The counters were bare. Plasticized curtains over the windows made it too dark. The men talked about what to do with me. There were two bedrooms upstairs. Locks on the doors? No, but there were dead bolts in the garage, Octavio could put one on easily. A man would be posted in the house. Who was she?
They turned and looked at me. I was standing in the corner, with fallen plaster from the ceiling crunching under my feet. Octavio switched on the overhead light, which whined and then popped and went out. He grunted and pushed aside the curtains.
‘Someone who wants the Ibarras,’ said the big man. ‘Bad company.’ He stepped closer to me. ‘You’re a friend of theirs, that you’re look
