Then footsteps. Fast. Heavy. Wrong.
Esteban appears in the doorway of the sitting room and stops.
He takes in all of
you at once—Tomás kneeling before Lucía, you by the window with your phone in hand, the fallen fan, the air in the room irrevocably changed. His face does something striking in that instant. Not guilt. Not confusion.
Calculation.
“What’s going on?” he asks.
Tomás rises slowly.
Some men grow louder in anger. Tomás becomes steadier. It is almost more unsettling to witness. Tears still mark his face, yet his voice, when he speaks, is flat enough to cut.
“You tell me.”
Esteban’s eyes flick to your phone. Then to Lucía.
Then back to you. He understands—not every detail, but enough. For a brief second, something like contempt hardens his gaze, and you realize he is angry not because he has been exposed, but because the women he underestimated have aligned.
“This is ridiculous,” he says.
There it is. Exactly on cue.
You lift the phone. “Whose is it?”
He shrugs. “An old work phone.”
