“You can cancel the gathering, Elena,” Samuel urged.

“Marcus can lock the iron gate at the turnoff from the highway.

You don’t have to put up with thirty-two people who treated you like a servant for five years.”

“No,” I said, my voice steady in the quiet evening air.

“If I close the gate now, they’ll tell everyone in Guadalajara I hid behind my lawyer.”

“It will be a painful public confrontation,” Samuel said.

“They need to see the house my father built,” I said.