We didn’t go home.
Not right away.
I drove.
No destination.
Just movement.
The city slid past in blurred lights and familiar streets that suddenly felt foreign.
My mind worked in fragments.
Medicine.
Gun.
Old man.
Old man.
That phrase repeated itself over and over.
Who?
Who was the old man?
There weren’t many options.
At sixty-seven, I knew what category I belonged to.
And Marina—
My wife of thirty-two years.
The woman I had built everything with.
The woman I had trusted with every detail of my life.
The woman who had just kissed my cheek like nothing was wrong.
I tightened my grip on the steering wheel.
No.
No, this wasn’t enough.
A child overheard something.
Half a conversation.
Maybe misunderstood.
Maybe twisted.
Kids hear things wrong all the time.
But—
“Emi,” I said, keeping my voice steady, “when you heard her… was she angry?”
He shook his head.
“No.”
“Was she whispering?”
“Yes.”
“Did she sound… scared?”
He hesitated.
Then nodded slowly.
That stopped me.
“Scared?”
“She sounded like when Daniela cries in the kitchen when she thinks no one hears.”
My chest tightened.
Daniela.
My daughter.
Héctor’s wife.
Héctor.
I said his name in my head again.
He was always polite.
Always respectful.
Too respectful, sometimes.
The kind of man who never raised his voice.
Who never showed too much.
Who always stood just a little behind Daniela at family gatherings.
Watching.
Listening.
I swallowed.
“Did you hear anything else?” I asked.
