“I want to see the medical reports,” I said.
Teresa gave a dry laugh.
“Reports? Your wife died. Your son died. Accept it and stop disgracing this family.”
That was when Rodrigo appeared in the hallway, holding a glass of whiskey. He wore sunglasses indoors, as if grief were another luxury accessory.
“Julian,” he said in a rehearsed voice. “Don’t make a scene. It’s already sad enough that you were late to your own wife’s funeral.”
I looked at him.
There was a fresh scratch on his neck.
A thin red line just below his jaw.
For the first time since I entered the house, my hands stopped shaking.
“You’re right,” I said quietly. “I won’t make a scene.”
Rodrigo smiled.
So did my mother.
They believed they had broken me.
But there were two things they did not know.
First, Camila and I had signed a legal document six months earlier after discovering someone was stealing money from the vineyards.
