“I don’t need another story, Patricia.”
Laura picked up her purse.
“I need employees who show up.”
Patricia hesitated.
“Should I call him?”
“No.”
Laura turned toward her.
“Give me his address.”
Patricia looked surprised.
“Are you going personally?”
“I want to see with my own eyes what kind of ‘emergencies’ he has.”
A few minutes later, the address appeared on Patricia’s screen.
847 Los Naranjos Street.
San Miguel neighborhood.
Laura forced a cold smile.
She already knew what she expected to find.
Excuses.
Disorganization.
Maybe someone taking advantage of her generosity.
Thirty minutes later, her black Mercedes was slowly moving along a dirt road.
The skyscrapers of the city were far behind.
Now there were stray dogs wandering between small houses, children playing in puddles, and old buildings with paint peeling from their walls.
People stopped and stared at the expensive car.
Laura noticed.
She didn’t care.
