“Whose phone is this?” he asks, though his voice already carries the answer.
“Esteban’s burner,” you reply.
Tomás lets out a short, brittle laugh. “No.”
Lucía makes a sound then—something between a sob and a word. Tomás looks at her and finally sees what, perhaps, he has been refusing to see
for weeks. His entire body shifts. The color drains from his face.
“What happened?” he asks her.
Lucía cannot speak at first.
So you do.
You tell him about the remarks before the move. The hallway. The doorknob. The flashlight. The tapping. Why she has been sleeping in your bed every night. You do not soften any of it, because softness would only protect the wrong person. Tomás listens as though each sentence is a nail driven into wood he still hopes will not become a coffin.
When you finish,
the room goes completely still.
Then Tomás turns to his wife.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
The question comes broken, not accusing.
Lucía begins to cry fully now. “Because I was afraid you’d think I was trying to destroy your family.”
