Chapter 3 - CHAPTER 2: THE ROAD TO QUERÉTARO
The rain beat against the windshield as Lucía drove south on Highway 45D. The radio hummed in the background, intermittently playing news bulletins that made my skin crawl.
“Police continue the search for 31-year-old Valeria Salgado, who fled Saint Jude Hospital late last night during a critical organ donation procedure. Authorities express severe concern for her mental health, stating she may pose a risk to herself and others...”
“They’re framing you as psychotic,” Lucía muttered, adjusting her side mirror. “It’s a classic tactic. If you go to the police, they’ll handle you as a psychiatric patient and hand you right back to your legal guardian or husband.”
“Can Rodrigo legally claim me if I’m declared incompetent?” I asked, my fingers clutching the dashboard.
“In Jalisco, with Dr. Beltrán signing the medical hold forms and Elvira testifying to your 'erratic behavior'? Yes,” Lucía said grimly. “They can have you remanded to a private medical facility within hours. And once you’re inside, you’ll never see daylight again.”
I pulled out a burner phone and dialed Renata’s number. It rang four times before going to voicemail.
“Hi, this is Renata! Leave a message or send a text—”
I hung up and immediately sent a text from an encrypted application: Renata, it’s Valeria. Do not talk to your mother or Rodrigo. Your life is in danger. Do not go home. Stay in a crowded public place.
Two minutes later, the phone buzzed.
Valeria?! What is going on?! Mom called me an hour ago crying! She said you had a psychotic break and ran away! She sent a driver to pick me up from my dorm!
My heart stopped.
“Where are you right now, Renata?!” I typed furiously.
I’m in the car. One of Dr. Beltrán’s assistants, Marcos, came to get me. He said he’s taking me straight to the hospital in Guadalajara so I can comfort Rodrigo.
“Lucía, step on it!” I shouted. “They already have her! She’s in a car with Beltrán’s man, heading toward Guadalajara right now!”
Lucía slammed her foot on the accelerator. The sedan surged forward, passing high-speed freight trucks in the blinding rain. “We have to intercept them at the toll booth outside Celaya. It’s the only place they’ll be forced to stop.”
For thirty minutes, we sped through the storm in near total silence, the tension in the car thick enough to cut with a knife. I kept tracking Renata’s location using a device-sharing link I had set up on her phone months ago when she asked me to help her track her running miles.
Her location dot was moving fast on Highway 45, approaching the exact same toll plaza we were nearing from the opposite direction.
“There!” Lucía pointed to a black sedan idling in the fast-transponder lane ahead.
“That’s Beltrán’s clinic car,” I recognized the plate numbers from my corporate commute days when Beltrán’s staff visited our company for executive health check-ups.
Lucía maneuvered our car, pulling directly across the lane just past the toll barrier, blocking the exit ramp.
The black sedan slammed on its brakes, screeching to a halt inches from our side door. The driver, a tall man in a dark suit named Marcos, stepped out angrily, reaching inside his jacket.
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“He has a gun!” Lucía yelled.
Without thinking, I grabbed a heavy iron lug wrench from beneath my seat, threw open my door, and charged at him before he could clear his holster.
