Guadalajara, Mexico. August 20 2016

My name is Maria Garcia. I'm a cashier at the Guadalajara Country Club. My shift had just ended, and I wanted to get home as quickly as possible, so I didn't waste any time at the club. I said goodbye to Jose, my boss, and left. The afternoon sun was warm, and I was looking forward to a cool drink and a rest. It was a beautiful day, the sky a cloudless, vibrant blue. I was walking around 2:15 p.m. on Mar Caribe, a quiet street that parallels the club, heading toward Avenida Americas to take a bus home.

I do this every day. It is my routine, a small, unremarkable part of my life. Most people were still working, so the street was mostly empty. The only sounds were the distant buzz of traffic and the chirping of birds from the lush, green trees that lined the street. The afternoon felt peaceful and ordinary, and I was lost in my own thoughts, humming a song to myself. I turned right onto Avenida Americas and started walking to the bus stop when a yellow taxi pulled up beside me.

The driver began to talk to me, his voice a low, gravelly murmur. "Get in," he said. "They sent me for you."

But no one I knew would send a taxi for me without telling me. The thought sent a cold shiver down my spine. The words sounded like a rehearsed line, not a genuine offer. The voice was flat, without any of the usual warmth of a taxi driver. I shook my head and kept walking, my pace quickening. When I didn't do what he said, the driver's voice changed. It became angry and sharp, and he began shouting terrible things at me, his words a stream of insults. "I said get in the car, you stupid bitch!" he yelled.

He kept telling me to get in the car, his voice growing louder and more frantic. That’s when I heard another voice, a static-filled whisper from his radio. The voice was cold and clipped, and I could just make out the words: "Just get out of the car and grab the bitch."

I saw the driver's face in the rearview mirror. His eyes were wide with a desperate anger, and his mouth was a thin, cruel line. He stopped the car abruptly, and his door flew open. He was of European descent, with pale skin, thin, blonde hair, and cold, blue eyes. He was thin and about 5'6" tall. He spoke Spanish with a bit of an accent, a foreign cadence that made my blood run cold.

When he got out of the car, I didn't hesitate. I started to run. I ran as fast as I could, my legs burning with a sudden, desperate energy. I ran into the supermarket La Playa on the corner of Avenida Americas and Mar Mediterraneo. The sudden change from the hot, empty street to the cool, brightly lit store was a shock to my system. The sound of the automatic doors hissing shut behind me was the most comforting sound I had ever heard.

I ran to the clerk at the front, a young man with a kind face. I begged him to help me, my heart pounding, my breath coming in ragged gasps. I was a bit in shock and didn't want to go outside. My mind was still replaying the driver's words, the cold voice from the radio. The clerk, a kind man with a confused look on his face, went to the window and looked out. He said the taxi was gone. He looked at my pale, shaken face and offered me a glass of water. I hate to think what could have happened if I had gotten into that taxi. The what-ifs are a constant, haunting whisper in my mind.

At about 2:45 p.m., I finally found the courage to call the police. The officer who came listened to my story with a grim expression, and I knew that this wasn't the first time he'd heard a story like mine. He told me to be careful and not to take a taxi from the street again.

The next day, I didn't walk to the bus stop. I took a cab from the country club. I never want to feel that cold, haunting fear again. My life has been changed forever by this.

Sincerely,

Maria Garcia