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The car door swung open.
Alejandro came down wearing the same clothes he had left in.
The suitcase was gone.
He looked up at our window.
And although I hid immediately, I knew something was wrong.
He knew.
I don’t know how.
But I knew it.
I heard his hurried footsteps at the entrance.
The key turned in the lock.
My body reacted before my mind.
I ran to the bedroom and put the letter inside my blouse.
I took Mariana’s ID and put it in my pants pocket.
I didn’t think.
I just did it.
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.
Continued on the next page
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