of loving the wrong boy. She will most certainly come to hate Jago, Hayu thinks. Almost as much as she’ll hate herself.
Maybe that’s why Hayu takes the risk of letting her live.
Transgressions like hers must be punished.
“Of course, my son can never know about this,” she tells Julio now. “Understood?”
He nods. “Claro, señora. Of course.”
“You know I don’t like to take risks of any kind.”
“I have heard that about you, sí.”
“So you’ll understand, then, why I have to do this.” Hayu slides a very small revolver from her purse and shoots him in the head.
Julio drops to the ground, a neat hole at the center of his forehead. Someone will find the body in a day or two, but the police won’t investigate very hard—not a man like that, in a neighborhood like this.
Not that it matters. The police are in her pocket. All of Juliaca is in her pocket. And now her son is there again too, right where he belongs.
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