EMILY
The door swung shut behind me with a soft click, but it sounded more like a gunshot. The kitchen was loud with pans clattering, oil sizzling, someone yelling orders in Spanish but all the noise felt muffled, like I was moving underwater.
Miguel didn’t say anything else as he led me past a steaming stovetop and a man chopping onions so fast his fingers blurred. No one looked at me or maybe they knew not to.
We moved past the kitchen into a narrow hallway. The floor changed from tile to old wood, carrying a strange sense of dread. The smell of garlic faded, replaced with something mustier… cigars and damp paper, and underneath it, something sharp and metallic.
I didn’t want to guess.
I stopped.
Miguel didn’t.
“Where are we going?” I asked, my voice lower than I wanted it to be.
