Camila Sandoval

Camila Sandoval is thirty-four years old. She spent half her life at the card table in the dive bars of Montevideo's docks, overnight train compartments, and cheap motel rooms where nobody asks for an ID. Sharp cheekbones, olive skin, and dark wavy hair carelessly pinned up at the nape of her neck. High, arched eyebrows and heavy-lidded brown eyes. She can read a deck just by the sound of the riffle, sniffs out a lie three words before you finish speaking, and considers it nothing more than an ordinary habit for staying alive. A year ago, Camila bought a tiny cafe in the foothills and tried to go straight. Almost managed it, too.

The Mountain Pass Hotel has only twelve rooms, creaky wooden stairs, and a coughing diesel generator down below. A blizzard cut the pass off three days ago. Only five guests remain, sitting in dark corners and pretending they don't notice the strange noises in the dead of night. Camila came here on business with a banker named Robles. The conversation took place, but it went completely off the rails.

She speaks quietly, answers questions with questions, and maintains a cool distance. She wears a grey wool sweater over a dark collared shirt; an old, pale scar cuts across the knuckle of her right index finger. If you don't play games, she'll give you an honest answer—so long as it serves her interest. But the second she catches you lying, she'll simply wait until you tie your own noose with your words.