CHAPTER 3: GHOSTS IN THE STEMS

POV: Xitllali De La Rosa (living as "Esperanza")

The knock didn't come again, but I didn't move. I stood between the flower racks, staring at the back door with one hand resting on the iron shears on the counter.

The alley had already gone quiet. I waited a few seconds, then picked up the shears and headed toward the back room. I wasn't taking any chances. My fingers gripped the shears tightly, ready to drive the pointed tip into whoever was waiting on the other side of that wood.

When I got to the doorway, I stayed against the wall and looked through the little glass pane in the oak door. I saw a shadow shift. But it wasn't a cartel hitman, and it wasn't Guillermo.

It was old Doña Teresa, her wool shawl pulled tightly against the rain, and she was holding a wooden crate of fresh marigolds. 

She tapped gently on the glass again.

"Esperanza?" her voice called out softly. "I brought the morning flowers, child."

A long, silent breath rushed out of my chest. My knees almost gave out. I leaned against the doorframe, and closed my eyes for three seconds to force my heart back into place.

Get a grip on yourself, I ordered myself. You are supposed to be dead. Dead women don't jump at old ladies selling flowers.

"Coming, Doña Teresa," I called out, forcing a sweet, soft voice. I unbolted the heavy latch, opened the door, and helped her lift the heavy crate inside.

"You look pale today, little flower" Doña Teresa said, wiping rain off her wrinkled face. "The highland winter is coming early."

"Just the cold, Doña,” I lied smoothly, and handed her 1,700 Mexican pesos. "Thank you."

After she left, I locked the door and carried the marigolds to my workbench. Then I pulled out my trimming knife and sat down on the wooden stool.

To distract my racing thoughts, I turned on the little radio on the shelf and went back to the flowers. The speaker crackled for a few seconds before a news report came through.

I picked up a marigold and started cutting the stem. 

In Mexico, these were the flowers of the Day of the Dead, they're meant to guide the spirits of the dead back home. I hated how much they reminded me of my own fake life. I was a living corpse, living under a name I wasn't born with.

Maybe that's why I never liked them much. I had spent two years pretending to be someone else, and sometimes I wondered how much of the old me was even left. Did Xitllali really die in that explosion, leaving only this nervous, quiet girl behind?

"...violence in western Jalisco shows no sign of stopping," the reporter said.

My hand stopped immediately.

"Local authorities in Guadalajara confirmed that three high-ranking members of the De La Cruz syndicate were found dead near Lake Chapala early Tuesday morning. This brings the number of targeted killings in the region to nine in the past two years..."

Guadalajara.

I stared at the radio.

I hadn't heard that name in a very long time, but suddenly I could remember everything.

I remember the gates outside Guillermo's house, the long hallways, the marble floors, waking up in the middle of the night just because I heard his shoes coming down the corridor.

I put the shears down.

The reporter called it a bloodbath.

But I knew what that meant. Men being dragged from their homes. Bodies left in places where someone would eventually find them, and gunshots in the middle of the night. 

It all sounds like something Guillermo would do.

Guillermo had always been good at making people disappear.

Apparently, he still was.

When I married him, I thought he was just a ruthless cartel leader, a man built out of cold stone who treated our marriage like a business deal. For two years, I played the meek, silent bride. I wore the silk dresses he bought me. I kept my head down when his lieutenants walked into the room. I let them all believe I was a fragile glass doll that would break if someone spoke too loud.

They never looked close enough to notice the truth. While I sat quietly in the corner of those grand dining rooms, I was counting every guard stationed outside. I was timing the security camera loops. I was also watching how Guillermo managed his money. I memorized the safe combinations he dialed and the hidden exits throughout the estate.

When I saw a threat proving my family would be killed if I stayed at Guillermo's side, I didn't break. Instead, I planned. I forged fake IDs, prepared an escape route, and set the car ablaze outside the restaurant.

I had burned that violent world to the ground so I could sit in this quiet mountain to shop and trim flowers in peace. I had won, and I was free. The cartel in Jalisco could destroy itself for all I cared, it was five hundred miles away, buried under two years of silence.

"...police refuse to comment on rumors that the killings are being carried out by a single man," the reporter droned on. "Syndicate insiders claim the executions are acts of personal revenge..."

Revenge. I shook my head, trying to clear the bad memories. "It doesn't matter," I whispered aloud to the empty room. "It's not your war anymore, Xitllali. You are Esperanza now."

I brought the shears down and cut through another marigold stem. A moment later, the radio crackled loudly, cutting off the reporter. I reached over to adjust the dial, but instead of clearing up, the static got worse. Then I heard the clicking underneath it. Three short clicks followed by two longer ones.

I stopped what I was doing. I had heard that signal before. Guillermo's security team used it before a raid, back when I was still living in Guadalajara. I dropped the shears on the table and looked toward the front window.

That black SUV was parked outside the shop.

I couldn't see through the tinted windows, but I didn't need to. My stomach tightened as the driver's door opened. My heart felt like it was going to burst right through my ribs.