“Give me the address,” he said finally, more gently. “I’ll go when I finish my course. Just to evaluate it. I’m not promising anything.”
The address hit like a slap in the face: Lomas de Chapultepec.
At eight o’clock at night, Carmen left exhausted, got into her old Nissan Tsuru and drove to the other side of the city, as if she were crossing an invisible border.
The sidewalks became cleaner, the trees taller, the streets quieter. In front of a wrought iron gate, a guard looked at her suspiciously until he heard her name over the intercom and opened it.
The cobblestone path led her to a glass and steel mansion that shone like a diamond under the outside lights. Carmen felt, for a second, that her white robe was too simple a disguise for that setting.
