Laurel
...

I'm at the hardware store again, third time this week. I stroll down the aisles, pretending to browse, but I know exactly what I'm here for.

A box of nails? Maybe a paintbrush?

I'll figure that out when I get to the counter. What matters is that Sophia's there, standing behind the register, staring off into space like she's a thousand miles away. I wonder where her mind goes when she looks like that--what she's thinking.

The plan is simple, at least on paper: get close, gather information, figure out the cartel's next move, find where they're keeping my sister.

But nothing about this feels simple when I'm standing in front of her. Every word I say has to be just right--not too eager, not too distant.

She can't suspect a thing.

As I approach the counter, I catch her eye and give her a small smile. She looks tired, like she hasn't slept in days or like there's something bothering her but she smiles back. It's weak, but it's something.

"Back again, huh?" she says, her voice teasing as she rushes a hand through her hair. I always find the entire arrangements fascinating, how did she even dye it to get that perfect mix of brown and blonde?

"What are you working on this time?"

I glance at the box of nails in my hand--something I grabbed off the nearest shelf without thinking.

"Oh, just a little home project. You know how it is."

She nods, but I can tell she doesn't really care. She seems sad today. I want to ask what's wrong, but I don't.

It's not part of the plan.

Instead, I make small talk. Ask her about her day, how work's been going, the usual stuff. She's hesitant at first, like always, but after a few minutes, she starts chirping.

She tells me about a customer who tried to haggle over a hammer, and we both laugh at that. It's easy, natural, like we've known each other for years but it's only been days.

Truth is, I don't know her.

Not really.

I know the version of her that stands behind this counter, the version that hides from the world. The real Sophia--the one tied up in all of this cartel business--that's the one I need to find.

And the faster I can do that, the faster I can move on to the next step.

I stay around, longer than I should, but eventually, I pay for the nails and head out. I really need to stop spending money on this stupid stuff.

As I walk to the road to catch a cab, I pull out my phone and dial Danny's number.

"She's has no idea," I tell him the second he picks up. I'm too excited it's leaking from my voice. "Everything's going according to plan."

He sighs on the other end, like he's relieved but still worried.

"Just be careful, Laurel. You don't know how deep this thing goes. She might be pretending."

"I know," I say, trying to sound confident. "But I've got it under control. She doesn't suspect a thing."

We talk for a few more minutes before I hang up.

Danny's always my safety net. But I don't tell him everything.

I don't tell him how weird it's becoming. How, despite my best efforts, I'm starting to feel something--sympathy? Maybe even something more--toward Sophia. That's not something I can afford to feel, and it's certainly not something I can tell him.

I can't be friends with this girl, she is only the ladder to my sister that's all. Feeling things will compromise things.

The next few feeks are more of the same. I keep showing up at the store, after a day or two, each time with a different excuse--sometimes it's a hammer, sometimes a can of paint. Anything that lets me stay close to her without raising suspicion.

One time, she's on break when I walk in. She's sitting outside the store, eating a sandwich and scrolling through her phone. I hesitate for a moment, unsure if I should approach, but she looks up and waves me over.

"Hey," she says, not surprised to see me. "You caught me on my break."

"I can come back later if you want," I offer, even though I have no plans of doing that.

"No, it's fine," she says, scooting over to make room for me. "Sit. Keep me company."

I take a seat next to her, acting casual. We talk about nothing in particular--work, the weather, the latest TV shows.

It's crazy how much stuff she knows and I just say: I haven't seen that one. I don't really like that one.

In moments like these, it's easy to forget that there's so much more at stake.

I'm only doing this to get closer to the truth, I convince myself, but the more time I spend with her, the more I realize how complicated this is becoming.

There's something about Sophia that makes it hard to keep my guard up. Maybe it's the way she laughs, soft and a little unsure, like she's forgotten how.

Or maybe it's the way her dark eyes light up when she talks about something she loves-- the ocean, or this little diner she used to visit as a kid.

She mentions casually that her childhood memories are a little fuzzy but I don't press.

I tell myself I'm not getting attached. It's just part of the job. I'm only here for the information. But I know that's not entirely true.

I'm starting to care.

I shouldn't.

We start grabbing lunch together more often after that. It becomes part of our routine--she takes her break, I "happen" to stop by, and we sit outside, eating sandwiches or ice cream and laugh about whatever.

She doesn't know that I'm always across the street waiting for the clock to strike twelve so I can come by.

It feels too normal, like I'm slipping into a life that isn't mine.

But all the while, I'm watching her. Waiting for her to slip up and reveal something I can use.

She never mentions the cartel, but that's understandable, Sophia is a smart girl.

Sometimes, she trails off mid-sentence, catching herself before she vomits something she shouldn't.

And in those moments, I see the way it's suffocating her.

I want to probe further, but I know I have to wait for the right moment. If I push too hard, too fast, she'll bolt. And then all of this will have been for nothing.

So, I waste my time, hanging out with her, pretending to be her friend.

But keeping the distance is getting harder but the minute.

There are moments when she seems as if she is going to break down and I can't help but pat her back or put my hand on hers.

But that's what friends do, right?

One afternoon, we're sitting on a park bench, licking ice cream cones, when she looks at me with that same expression between funny and soft. It catches me off guard, and for a moment, I forget why I'm really here.

"You're a good friend, you know that?" she mumbles.

I swallow, forcing a smile. "I try."

She smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes. I want to reach out, but I let it go, keeping things light, keeping her distracted.

I know the time is coming when I'll have to ask the questions, when I'll have to push her for the truth.

But that time is not now.

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