"Show me." Maggie cuts in, her voice slicing through the air like a blade. She's on her feet now, edging closer to the table, eyes fixed on me with that unblinking intensity.
"Maggie—"
"Show me."
I turn the phone so she can see, angling the screen just right under the dim overhead light, her breath catching as the footage flickers to life on the grainy black-and-white feed, timestamp ticking in the corner: 14:32, four days back.
She's transfixed, leaning in close enough that I catch the faint scent of her—sweat and resolve—as the scene unfolds: there, in the restaurant's shadowed booth, her brother Tyler pulls out his own phone with a casual flick, sliding it across the table toward the man in the expensive suit, the cartel lieutenant leaning forward with predatory interest.
The footage captures the glow from Tyler’s screen illuminating their faces, sharpening Tyler’s easy grin as he taps something and zooms in on the screen. Then it resolves—a pretty picture of her, Maggie, filling Tyler's display, captured in a candid shot that steals the breath: sunlight catching her smile mid-laugh, hair tousled just so, eyes bright with that unknowing trust.
Tyler points at it, nodding like he's auctioning off the prize. Then he offers his hand, making a deal.
Maggie watches it three times without speaking. Then she turns away, walks to the window, and presses her forehead against the glass. Her shoulders are shaking, but she's not making a sound.
I give her five minutes. Then I ask the questions she needs to answer.
"When was the last time you actually saw Tyler? Before this."
"Two months ago." Her voice is muffled against theglass. "He came to my apartment. Said he wanted to take me to dinner. His treat. We went to this expensive place downtown."
"Did he ask about the trust fund?"
Long pause. "Yes. Said we should invest it. Or at least split it. That Mother would want us to use it, not just let it sit there."
"What did you say?"
"I said no. Like I always do." She turns to look at me, and her eyes are red but dry. "He smiled. Said okay. That he understood, and then he picked up the check like always, and we went home."
"He was already in debt by then."
"He was already planning this." The realization settles over her like a weight. "That dinner was—what? Reconnaissance? One last try to get me to sign willingly before he moved to plan B?"
"Probably."
"And plan B was selling me to a cartel." She laughs, but it's broken and bitter. "My baby brother. The kid I raised. The one I gave up everything for."
I think about Sofia. About the choice I made in Caracas. About the five years I've spent wearing her dog tags and wondering if I could have saved her if I'd just chosen differently.
"People make choices," I say carefully. "Bad ones. Selfish ones. That's on them, not on the people they hurt."
"Is it?" She turns fully to face me now. "Because I keep thinking about all the ways I failed him. All the times I said no to splitting the trust. All the times I was too busy or too tired to notice he was drowning."
"He wasn't drowning. He was gambling."
"Maybe he was gambling because I wasn't there. Because I was too focused on being the responsible one, the adult, the—" She stops. "I don't even know anymore."
"You're not responsible for his choices."
"Then why does it feel like I am?"
I don't have an answer for that. I've been asking myself the same question about Sofia for five years.
The silence stretches between us, heavy with things neither of us wants to say. Outside, the wind picks up. Desert storm rolling in. Ican smell the electricity in the air, that sharp ozone scent that comes before lightning.
"Where is he now?" Maggie asks, finally. "Tyler. Where is he?"
"My contact's still tracking that. Best guess is Phoenix. Waiting for confirmation that you signed before he collects his payout."
