Eventually, five minutes before the sand in the hourglass was up, Javier came to me. He wore a mask of elegance and indifference, his unusually handsome features taking on the appearance of a sculpture. But I had no idea what the artist was trying to say: Here’s a man in denial? Here’s a man without a soul? Here’s a man who will build empires and legacies, whose pride shaped the land? Or here is a man who for once in his life, doesn’t know who he is?

Whoever the man at my door was, it was apparent this was the last place he wanted to be.

“You wanted to see me?” he said so formally that it cut worse than his blade.

“You weren’t going to come say goodbye?” I asked him. He remained at the door. I remained near the bathroom. Neither of us moved.

“I was,” he said, an air of defiance to him. “At the door.”

“Oh,” I said caustically. “How very kind and proper of you.”

“Luisa,” he warned.

“So after all you’ve put me through,” I said, folding my arms, “you’re just wiping your hands clean and pushing me out the door.”

Indignation flared in his eyes. His hands clenched and unclenched, but he managed to keep his voice hard and steady. “This was your choice. You chose this.”

“Because it’s the only choice I have,” I said. “Isn’t it?”

Our eyes fastened on each other. I wanted him to come closer. I wanted to see something that wasn’t there.

“Can’t we go back in time?” I asked, my voice softer now. “When I believed I meant something to you?”

He swallowed and looked away. “You were always my captive. I was always the man holding the knife.”

And again that knife was buried straight in me. I took in a sharp breath, willing the pain away. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Esteban said getting feelings out of you was like getting blood from a stone.”

“Esteban doesn’t know shit,” he snapped, glaring at me. “What the hell do you want me to say? Do you think anything I say will make any difference to you? To me? To this fucking situation? Huh?”

“You could tell me not to go.”

“I did!” he cried out, marching across the room. He grabbed me by the shoulders, his reddening face in mine. “I told you not to go. I told you there could be another way. You could go free, away from certain fucking death. But you’re like this…”

“This what?” I goaded, watching his eyes spark and flame. “What am I?”

“A martyr,” he said, spitting out the word. “You wear your nobility like a goddamn crown. I am so sick and tired of it, especially when I know there is a strong, unapologetic woman in there just dying to come out. I’ve seen her. I’ve fucked her. I want that woman to win.”

“That woman will have to live with regret.”

“That woman,” he said, giving me a shake, “will live.” His eyes sought the ceiling, trying to compose himself, but when he looked back at me, the fire was still there. The mask had slipped. “I know you love your parents, Luisa. But is their safety—not even guaranteed—worth your own life? Do you really think your parents want you to do this? Do you think this will make them fucking proud? If they’re anything like me, they’ll be angry as hell. They will live their lives with regret instead. Is that what you want to give them? A dead daughter and a lifetime of fucking sorrow?”

I was stunned. He grabbed my face with both his hands and stared at me with crazed intensity. “Be fucking selfish! Save your own life.” He let go of me suddenly, turning his back to me, his hand on the back of his neck. “Lord knows I can’t save it for you.”

I watched his back, the strength of it underneath his navy suit jacket, wondering if it ever got tired of shouldering this world. It seemed all so easy for him to give orders, tell people what to do, and never have to give an ounce of himself.

“You gave me a reason to run,” I said to him. “Give me a reason to stay.”

He paused and slowly turned to look at me. “Give you a reason to stay?”

“Yes,” I said, walking up to him, refusing to break my gaze.

His eyes softened, just for a moment. “What can I say to make you stay?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Tell me you love me.”

My boldness shocked him more than it shocked me. He stared at me, unhinged and absolutely bewildered, like he didn’t understand. “I can’t do that,” he managed to say.

I had nothing to lose. “You can’t because you don’t.”

He opened his mouth then shut it. He gave a small shake of his head, and then said, almost chagrined, “No. Because I don’t know what that is anymore.”

I placed my hands on his jacket, running them down his silky lapels. “Well,” I said sadly, “it’s what you feel for your suits. And your money. And your mansions. And all your power.” I looked up at him. “Except you feel it for me.”

There was a knock at the door. I reluctantly broke his gaze, his lost and helpless gaze, and looked to see Juanito standing in the doorway.

“So sorry, boss,” he said nervously, trying not to look at us. “But it’s time to go.”

Javier nodded, clearing his throat. “She’ll be right there.”

Juanito left, and it was just the two of us again, and for the last time.

“I’m sorry,” Javier said sincerely, reaching for my face and gently brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. I wasn’t sure what he was apologizing for—for not loving me, for Juanito interrupting, for having to say goodbye. Perhaps he was apologizing for that first moment when he decided my life would be worth a shipping lane. It didn’t really matter in the end.

“I’m sorry, too,” I told him. Then I walked away from his touch and to the door, down the hall, and down the stairs to where Juanito was waiting for me in the foyer.

Waiting to take me home.

I did not look behind me. I did not look back. I kept my head high and conviction straight, even when Juanito placed the bag over my head, so I would still not see the way in and out of this place.

With his help, I got into the SUV that was running outside and told myself, for the umpteenth time that day, that I was doing the right thing.

It began to really worry me then, when the right thing started to feel so very wrong.

The drive back to Culiacán was longer than the drive to Javier’s. I wasn’t sure if it was the mountainous roads or Juanito’s driving, or the fact that every mile we passed, my veins filled with ice-cold fear. The fact that I couldn’t see didn’t help, but a few hours into it, Juanito leaned over and pulled the bag from my head.

I squinted in the afternoon light. We must have been far enough from Javier’s that it didn’t matter what I saw. I guess I couldn’t blame them for thinking that I might have ratted on their whereabouts. That thought made me wonder if perhaps Salvador was going to think I was a rat myself.

But once I entered his doors—if I even got that far—I would never leave them again. Whether I had switched sides or not, it didn’t really matter. I knew I would die in that gilded cage.

Night was just falling, the sky turning into a brilliant blend of periwinkle and tangerine that made my soul hurt, when Jaunito pulled the car to the side of the highway. He cut the engine and eyed me expectantly. “Well,” he said.

“Well,” I said back.

“This is where you get off.” He nodded to the dusty shoulder that was riddled with garbage.

“But we aren’t even near the city,” I protested. “The sign said we had another two hours or so.”

“True,” he said, “but my orders were to drop you off here. How you get into the city is your own doing. Soon, there will be checkpoints, all from your husband’s cartel. They’ll be looking at each car. I can’t risk being seen with you.”

“So then, what do I do?”

“Hitchhike,” he said.

“But that’s so unsafe,” I said. “I could be attacked or raped.”

He gave me a melancholy smile. “What do you think’s going to happen to you anyway?”