Tomás drops to his knees in front of her so suddenly the fan topples and clatters against the floor. He takes both her hands in his. “You are my family,” he says, now crying as well. “You are my family.”
You look away.
Some grief deserves privacy, even when
it unfolds in front of you.
Down in the garage, a metal tool hits the ground with a sharp ring. Esteban still has no idea what is gathering above him. The thought gives you a fierce, almost savage satisfaction.
“We call the police,” you say.
Tomás lifts his head.
“There’s enough here to file a report,” you continue. “Voyeurism. Harassment. Stalking. At the very least, we create a record. And before you say we can handle it within the family, understand this: he relied on family.”
Tomás wipes his face
with the heel of his hand. He suddenly looks older than your younger brother has ever seemed. “We call,” he says.
Lucía stares at him, stunned.
“Yes,” he says again, firmer now. “We call.”
The sound that escapes her then is not quite relief. It is relief forced through weeks of fear—ragged, disbelieving, human.
You don’t get the chance to make the call quietly.
The garage door slams below.
