The restaurant Ximena chose was a small Salvadoran place tucked between a laundromat and a convenience store. Warm light spilled from the windows, and the smell of fried pupusas drifted into the cold air. If I hadn’t been so focused on the mess we were unraveling, I would’ve ordered four on the spot. They smelled heavenly.
Under any other circumstances, this would’ve been the perfect cozy Valentine’s lunch spot — the kind of hidden gem couples bragged about discovering. But today wasn’t about food or romance. Today was about answers.
Inside, a woman sat alone in the corner booth. Dark hair, pale skin, small eyes, a tiny frame — but her posture radiated confidence and danger in equal measure. She ate slowly, deliberately, as if she’d been expecting us.
Ximena Méndez.
She looked up as we
