a4“Don’t inject that into my wife!” I shouted, but the girl was faster than I was.

By 4:45 AM, the fog off the Valley of Mexico had settled over Santa Fe like a suffocating white blanket.

I parked my SUV three blocks away from San Gabriel Clinic, hidden behind the high concrete wall of an abandoned electrical substation. Morales sat in the back seat, surrounded by bags of saline, intravenous lines, and a portable battery-powered suction unit. Maya sat up front, clutching a brass pocket knife I had given her for protection, her eyes darting between the streetlights.

“You stay with Dr. Morales, Maya,” I said, turning to look at her. “No matter what happens, do not leave this car.”

“He has the gold ring,” she said suddenly.

I stopped with my hand on the door handle. “Who?”

“The fat man in the suit. The one who gave the paper to the doctor yesterday. He wore a ring with a green stone and a snake.”

Rodolfo. His signature emerald signet ring, an heirloom he bragged about at every corporate dinner. He had been at the clinic yesterday, delivering the poison personally. The final dose.

“I’ll be back with Verónica,” I promised, squeezing the child’s small, cold shoulder.

I pulled up the collar of my dark raincoat and slipped into the mist. San Gabriel was surrounded by an eight-foot wrought-iron fence draped in manicured ivy, but I had visited this place every single day for seven hundred and thirty days. I knew the blind spots of every security camera. I knew that the motion sensor by the delivery bay had been broken since last autumn because the maintenance supervisor was too lazy to replace the relay switch.

I slipped through the delivery gate just as the massive industrial laundry truck hissed to a halt beside the basement loading dock. The driver jumped down, leaving the engine idling, and walked inside to sign the manifest.

Moving swiftly, I slipped into the service corridor.

The basement smelled of chlorine, bleach, and medical waste. I took the service elevator to the third floor, using the master keycard I had duplicated months ago when I used to bring Verónica’s wheelchair down to the private courtyard.

When the elevator chimed softly at the third floor, the hallway was dim and quiet. Only the green glow of exit signs illuminated the polished floor.

At the central nursing station, two night nurses were huddled over their computer screens, their backs to the corridor.

I moved like a shadow across the carpeted hallway until I reached Room 312.

I slipped the brass handle down and stepped inside, clicking the lock behind me.

Verónica lay in the center of the dark room. The cardiac monitor beside her emitted a low, rhythmic pulse: *sixty-two beats per minute.*

I stepped to the bedside and leaned over her. Her eyes were open, staring at the darkened ceiling.

“Verónica,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “It’s me. It’s Alejandro.”

Her pupils dilated. Her breathing rate on the monitor ticked up instantly: *seventy-five... eighty-eight... ninety-six.*

“I know,” I said, burying my face into the crook of her neck, feeling the warmth of her skin. “I know everything. You don't have to fight alone anymore. Salgado. Rodolfo. The poison. I know you're in there, my love. I know you can hear me.”

A shudder ran through her throat. A tiny, strangled sound—a breath caught against paralyzed vocal cords—escaped her lips.

“Don’t try to speak,” I whispered, kissing her cheek, which was wet with her tears. “I’m taking you home. Right now.”

I reached for the IV line running into her arm port and snapped the valve shut, pulling the plastic needle from her skin and tossing the tubing aside. I unlocked the caster wheels of the gurney bed.

Suddenly, the door handle rattled.

The lock held, but only for a fraction of a second before a heavy metal master key turned in the cylinder.

The door swung inward.