The photos.
The letter.
Everything was scattered on the floor as if the truth had exploded inside my house.
I panicked.
I dialed 911 with clumsy fingers.
When an operator finally answered, my words got all jumbled up.
I gave him my name.
The address.
I said I had found evidence related to a missing woman.
I said the name Alejandro.
I said Monterrey.
I said blood.
The woman on the other end of the line asked me not to touch anything else.
That she leave the room.
That a patrol car was on its way.
“Don’t stay alone with him if he arrives early,” she repeated. “Do you understand? Don’t go near your husband.”
Yeah.
I understood.
Too late.
I put my phone away and wanted to run into the street, but I stopped dead in my tracks.
My purse was on the dresser.
And inside the bag, the car keys.
I took them.
That’s when I heard something that emptied my soul.
The sound of an engine entering the street.
I approached the window, barely parting the curtain.
Alejandro’s truck turned and stopped in front of the house.
Not two hours later.
Now.
Now.
I didn’t even have time to breathe.
