Salvatierra.
Those names existed in Chicago like thunderclouds. Everyone knew them, even people who pretended they did not. Hotels. unions. restaurants. construction companies. judges. police. guns in expensive suits.
“What is this?” you asked.
Carmen could barely look at you.
“Your mother’s name was Sofia Salvatierra.”
The surname hit you before the first name could.
Salvatierra.
The same initial on your locket.
You stood so fast the chair scraped backward.
“No.”
Carmen reached for you.
“You need to listen.”
“No. You’re confused. You’re sick.”
“I am sick. I am not confused.”
You shook your head, backing away from the table.
“She was Mateo’s sister,” Carmen said.
You stopped breathing.
“Mateo had a sister?”
“They erased her.”
The words were so absurd they almost made you laugh.
But Carmen was not laughing.
