His large frame blocks my view at first, but almost immediately, my shoes are stepping over the debris of broken furniture and glass. And then Marco steps aside, unveiling a scene from a horror movie. That's the only way to describe it.

Lying in a gory heap on the floor is a woman I don't recognize, but even if I knew her, I doubt I could recognize her. Her hair is matted with blood, clothing torn, and pieces of what I think are a lamp shattered around her.

"Is she—"

"She's dead," Marco answers quietly. "I already checked."

Glass crunches under the weight of someone's shoes in the hall, and a second later, Mercedes appears. Her hair is a tangled mess, blood spattered across her face, a large gash down her cheek. She's visibly shaking, wobbling in her heels as if she's on the verge of collapse, and when her eyes collide with mine, a mournful sob bursts from her lips.

"I didn't mean to, Santi." Tears splash against her cheeks as she shakes her head violently. "I was going to bring her to you so you could do it."

Fragments of sentences eject between her ragged breaths. "She wouldn't listen to me! She just kept fighting me. I had no choice. She was going to kill me. She tried to kill you."

On this last sentence, she breaks down entirely, dropping to her knees and hiding beneath her hair as she dips her head. "Oh God, what have I done? What have I done?"

For a few long moments, I can't even speak. I can't bring myself to move or think. I'm paralyzed by her confession. This is the woman who tried to kill me. Somehow, Mercedes knows that, and right now, I don't know if I want to strangle her or comfort her.

"We need to handle this, boss." Marco gives me a gentle nudge in the right direction. "Perhaps you should take your sister home, and I can call for a body removal."

"Yes." My voice cracks as I nod. "We should probably do that."

27

Santiago

It's late morning when Mercedes emerges from the bathroom in one of the lodging rooms at the IVI compound. She's wearing a pair of cheap sweats from the only store that was open on our way here. Her hair is clean, face completely free of makeup, and the gash on her cheek is starting to scab over as a bruise forms around it.

She looks like someone I don't recognize anymore.

"Santi?" She lingers there hesitantly. "Why are we here?"

I can't bring myself to answer that question. But I don't need to. Mercedes is aware the conversation we are about to have will determine her fate, one way or the other.

"Tell me everything," I order gruffly.