My father’s mother, Abuela Evila, liked to scare us with stories of La Llorona, the weeping woman who roams the canal and steals children away.
“Call me or something.”
David was too afraid to move.
Cochran apologized at his welcome saying that he didn’t recognize her footsteps which made Mauro happy—a man who memorized footsteps can’t be that much of a dreamer.
My gut twisted, and I moved quicker. I needed a drink.