Laura Demands the Address
Laura stared at her reflection, the blazer crisp against the glass.
“Three absences, three family emergencies,” she muttered, voice low.
Patricia hovered, notebook trembling.
“Mrs. Mendoza, Carlos has always been reliable…”
Laura cut her off, arms snapping shut.
“I need facts, not fairy tales. Give me his address.”
Patricia hesitated, eyes flicking to the monitor.
“It’s 847 Los Naranjos Street, San Miguel. Are you—”
“Are you going personally?” Laura asked, tone sharp.
“Yes,” Patricia swallowed, “I’ll pull up the map.”
The screen glowed, the coordinates flashing.
Laura’s jaw tightened, a cold smile curving.
