Rodrigo arrived late, wearing dark glasses and a new navy jacket. Not the same one from before.
That confirmed what I already suspected.
He was beginning to feel afraid.
I was standing beside Camila’s coffin when my mother approached.
“Julian,” she whispered through clenched teeth. “Do not ruin this.”
I looked at her.
“Ruin what, Mother? The funeral or your plan?”
Her face barely moved.
But her eyes changed.
For one second, I saw the real Teresa. Not the grieving mother. Not the respectable widow. Not the family matriarch.
A cornered woman.
“Grief is making you talk nonsense,” she muttered.
“That’s what you said yesterday.”
The priest finished a prayer. Some guests crossed themselves. Others stared at the floor, uncomfortable with a tragedy they did not understand.
When the priest asked if anyone wished to speak, my mother stepped forward.
I was faster.
“I will.”
Teresa grabbed my arm.
