My baby brother—the one I raised after Mom died, the one I gave up college for, the one I joined the Army to support—sold me to a cartel to pay his gambling debts.
I heave again. Nothing comes up. My body trying to purge something that can't be vomited away.
Three days. I was zip-tied to that chair for three days while Tyler was—what? Negotiating terms? Counting his money? Planning how to spend the difference between four hundred thousand and one hundred eighty thousand?
Two hundred twenty thousand dollars.
That's what I'm worth to him. The profit margin on selling his sister.
My hands are shaking so badly I can't hold myself up anymore. I slide down, press my back against the bathroom wall, and pull my knees to my chest. Combat medic training notes my symptoms with detached precision: elevated heart rate, rapid shallow breathing, peripheral vision narrowing, and cold sweat.
Shock. Trauma response. Acute stress reaction.
Knowing the clinical terms doesn't make it stop.
I'm drowning in betrayal.
Six months ago.
Tyler took me to dinner at that expensive steakhouse downtown. The one with the dry-aged ribeye and the wine list that requires a second mortgage. He insisted on paying, waved off my protests with that easy grin I thought I knew.
"I got a promotion," he said, pouring us both wine from a bottle that cost more than my car payment. "Let me celebrate with my favorite sister."
I laughed. "I'm your only sister."
"Still my favorite." He lifted his glass. "To family. To Mom's memory. To having each other's backs."
We clinked glasses.
I remember thinking how proud Mom would be. How far Tyler had come. How I'd done right by her—kept him safe, kept him in school, kept him from falling apart when cancer took everything from us.
Then, casual as anything: "Hey, so I've been thinking about the trust fund. We should consider splitting it. Not all of it, just enough to invest. Mom would want us to use it, not just let it sit there."
I said no. Again. Like I always did when he brought it up.
He smiled. Kissed my cheek. Said okay.
"Whatever you think is best, Mags. You always know what's best."
Six months ago, while I sat across from him, eating expensive steak and drinking expensive wine and believing we werecelebrating his success, he'd already borrowed eighty thousand dollars from Los Serpientes.
Was already gambling it away. Was already planning how to pay them back with my life.
I make a sound that's half-laugh, half-sob. It echoes off the bathroom tiles, mocking me.
The shaking gets worse. My teeth are chattering despite the desert heat. I wrap my arms around myself, trying to hold the pieces together, but I can feel them cracking apart.
Every memory is rewriting itself.
Every dinner. Every phone call. Every time he said "love you, sis" or "you're the best" or "I don't know what I'd do without you."
All of it was manipulation.
All of it was him keeping me close, keeping me trusting, so when the time came and he needed my signature on those trust documents—when he needed me terrified and desperate—I'd do exactly what he wanted.
I think about the warehouse. Three days ago. When they finally let me see him.
Tyler was brought into the room where I was tied. He had a bruise on his face. Split lip. Torn shirt.
