Chapter 7 - SIRENS IN QUERÉTAROThe red and blue lights of the patrol cars painted the white stucco walls of the family home in flashing, erratic strokes. A small crowd of curious neighbors had gathered down the street, whispering behind closed gates as the officers stepped into the entryway.
Julián Márquez was pushed hard against the parota wood table, his expensive designer suit rumpled, cold steel handcuffs snapping shut around his wrists with a sharp, metallic click.
—You’re making a massive mistake! I want my lawyer! This is an illegal detainment!—Julián shouted, his voice echoing off the kitchen tiles as the federal inspector bagged his smartphone into an anti-static evidence pouch.
—You can explain your legal theories to the magistrate in Mexico City, Señor Márquez—the lead inspector replied smoothly, lifting the coffee mug containing the poisoned residue and placing it into a biohazard sample tube—. We found matching chemical traces on your jacket cuffs, and the digital logs from your cloud account give us more than enough probable cause for corporate fraud, extortion, and attempted poisoning.
As the officers hauled Julián toward the front door, he locked eyes with Mariana one last time. His expression of desperate pleading twisted into a mask of pure, venomous hatred.
—You’ll never see a dime of the settlement, Mariana! Your accounts are tied up in federal court for a decade! You’ll lose this house anyway! You’re ruined!
—Shut your mouth and keep moving—one of the officers barked, shoving Julián out into the cool night air.
The heavy front door slammed shut, cutting off the rest of his threats.
Inside the kitchen, the silence returned, heavier this time—not suffocating like before, but clean, quiet, and vast.
Ernesto walked over to the stove, picked up the two untouched cups of coffee, and poured them both down the drain, rinsing the ceramic mugs with hot tap water.
Mariana stood by the window, watching the tail lights of the police cruisers disappear around the corner of the traditional neighborhood street.
—Are you okay, hija?—Ernesto asked softly, walking over to stand beside her, placing a comforting, heavy hand on her shoulder.
Mariana let out a long, shuddering breath—the last remaining tension leaving her shoulders. She turned and hugged her father fiercely, burying her face against his flannel shirt.
May you like
—I’m better than okay, Dad—she whispered, a small, genuine smile breaking through her exhaustion—. We survived.
—Of course we did—Ernesto chuckled softly, patting her back—. Like I said: never underestimate an old electrician who knows how to check the circuit breakers.
