Day of the Dead by Lisa Brackman

featured an elaborately carved headboard.
    She put her suitcase down on top of the open cabinet by the wardrobe and stood there for a moment. The room was hot. It would take a while before the air conditioner cooled it down.
    I have to get out of here, she thought.
    She grabbed her purse and her good camera and bolted out the door.
    In the courtyard the guests still sat, drinking, chatting, reading books. A dog trotted slowly past the fountain. It was as hot as her room and utterly still.
    She slowed her steps so it wouldn’t look like she was running, managed a smile and a half wave at the woman behind the counter, and pulled open the wrought-iron gate.
    Free.
    Up the hill, she thought. She was pretty sure that if she walked up the hill, she’d come to a broad avenue running north and south, where there were buses that went downtown, maybe even to the airport. What was stopping her from just getting on one? She had five thousand dollars in her purse. She could go pretty far with that, all the way to the border, certainly. Just walk across and tell the customs people she’d lost her passport. They wouldn’t throw her in jail for that.
    Behind her a car started with a misfire that sounded like a hammer on a tin can. She could smell the unburned gas. They probably didn’t have strict emissions standards here, she thought, not like California. She kept walking, past a gay bar, a
lavandería,
which she knew meant ‘laundry.’ If I stay here, I’ll need to wash my clothes, she thought; most of them were filthy. But it was crazy to think about staying here, wasn’t it? This whole thing with Gary, whatever the money was, it couldn’t be worth the risk.
    It took a moment before she realized that the car she’d heard start matched her progress up the hill. It floated next to her, idling roughly, a presence she felt before she really took it in.
    A police car. Not the Vallarta police, who drove white pickups with cheerful green geckos painted on them. A black-and-white sedan, with a shield on the door.
    In the car just one officer: a big man with a mustache and aviator sunglasses. The man who’d arrested her.
    When he saw that she’d noticed him, he leaned his head toward the window. Stared at her, eyes obscured behind the sunglasses.
    Her heart hammered. She almost bolted and ran, but she stopped herself. Instead she turned away and continued to walk up the hill. Act like there’s nothing wrong, she told herself. Don’t try to run. Don’t give him an excuse.
    The police car followed, cruising slowly up the hill, keeping even with her progress, past the Oxxo mart, past the yoga/Pilates studio.
    The street dead-ended into a road that hugged the hill, curving out of sight a short distance ahead. At the junction were a sex shop and a tiny newsstand/Internet café.
    She was aware of the police car turning left, toward downtown, though she wouldn’t look directly. She kept walking another half a block, toward the junction, and then she stopped and turned around. The police car was gone.
    The adrenaline drained out of her, leaving her trembling after it had gone, and she stumbled a little on the uneven pavement.
    The policeman had staked out her hotel. He’d waited for her. Followed her. He’d wanted her to know about it.
    Her phone rang. The soothing classical tone she used for known callers.
    For a moment she didn’t want to look. What if it was Gary, calling to threaten? To gloat?
    It was her sister, Maggie.
    Her hand shook, her finger slipped, and she almost missed the ANSWER key.
    â€˜Hello? Michelle? Is that you?’ Maggie sounded frantic.
    â€˜It’s me, listen … I’m fine …’
    â€˜What the fuck happened to you? We’ve been going crazy here! I mean, when you weren’t home on Sunday, I thought, okay, maybe I got that wrong, but it’s
Tuesday,
and—’
    â€˜I’m really sorry,’ she said in a low