My name is Leonor Vargas , and I’m 68 years old.
That afternoon, I was folding summer clothes into an
old but sturdy blue suitcase, humming a song that was playing on the
radio. The next day I was traveling to Puerto Vallarta , my first real getaway since my husband, Gabriel ,
died . The apartment was spotless, the plants watered, everything in
order. For the first time in a long time, there was nothing to worry
about.
Then the phone rang.
It was Alejandra , my daughter-in-law. From the first second I knew something was wrong. Her voice was trembling, not from nerves, but from fear.
—Mom, trust me. Put a hidden camera in the living room and leave the apartment. Don’t ask questions. Just leave.