I snapped my fingers, cloaking both myself and the corpse in the shadows. The night stretched out before me, and with Ernesto slung over my shoulder like a sack of rotten potatoes, I made my way toward Don Diego's villa.
But when I arrived at the pigsty…
I stopped dead in my tracks.
What.
The.
Fuck.
The pigs.
They were gone.
My fingers twitched like I was about to convulse. My brain refused to process it. The pen was empty—just scattered straw and a few muddy prints in the dirt.
I almost choked on my rage.
Where were my pigs?
My beautiful, gluttonous, ever-hungry garbage disposals?
I clenched my jaw. This… this was a problem.
Without them, I had to dispose of Ernesto another way and it was so annoying. I had to dispose of Clara another way the other day because of María José.
