The front door swung open.
“Lucía!” she shouted from the living room.
I didn’t answer.
My breathing was so heavy it gave me away.
I heard his footsteps approaching.
A.
Of the.
Three.
They stopped just on the other side of the bedroom door.
—Lucía—he said this time in a low voice—. Open up.
I looked around for something to defend myself with.
There was nothing.
Just the cutter on the floor.
I picked it up with a trembling hand.
The door opened slowly.
Alejandro appeared in the frame.
And for the first time in eight years I didn’t see my husband.
I saw a stranger.
Her eyes showed no fear.
They showed calculation.
He looked at the ripped mattress.
The open packages.
The photos were thrown away.
And then he looked at me.
He didn’t scream.
He wasn’t faking it.
He didn’t ask what that meant.
He just closed the door behind him.
With insurance.
That click pierced my chest.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” he said.
I took a step back, pointing the box cutter at him.
—Don’t come any closer.
He looked down at the box cutter and let out a short, almost sad laugh.
—Lucía, listen. It didn’t happen the way you think.
“Shut up!” I yelled, my voice breaking. “Who was Mariana? What did you do to her?”
For the first time, something moved on her face.
Irritation.
Fatigue.
Perhaps anger.
“She was my wife before you,” he said. “And she still was legally. I was going to fix it.”
I felt like I couldn’t breathe.
Before me.
Legally.
Eight years.
Eight years living with a married man.
But that wasn’t even the worst part.
“The news report says she disappeared,” I whispered. “The letter mentions a road. Blood. An ambulance.”
Her lips pressed together.
He took a step towards me.
—It was an accident.
I gave another one backwards.
-I don’t believe you.
