“What was he doing?”
“He was holding your phone near your face.”
For a moment I genuinely did not understand the sentence.
Then I remembered the drawer.
The phone.
Esteban reaching beneath the blanket toward my hand.
Lucía saw recognition spread across my face.
“He tried your face first,” she said quietly.
“Then your hand.”
Esteban threw back the blanket.
“This is insane.”
Tomás moved closer to the bed.
“Sit down.”
“Don’t tell me what to do in my house.”
“You’re not leaving until she hears this.”
That stopped him.
Not because Tomás had raised his voice.
He hadn’t.
But because Esteban suddenly understood that whatever had protected him before—my trust, my embarrassment, Lucía’s silence—was gone.
I looked at Lucía.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I tried.”
“When?”
“Every night.”
She looked down at the space between Esteban and me.
“That’s why I slept here.”
The answer was so simple that it hurt.
All those nights I had wondered whether she wanted my husband.
All those mornings I had resented her for invading my marriage.
She had been placing her own body between Esteban and me because she believed that if she was there, he could not reach my phone—or me—without waking her.
“I didn’t know exactly what he was doing at first,” she said.
“I only knew he waited until you were deeply asleep.”
Esteban shook his head.
“She misunderstood what she saw.”
Lucía turned to him.
“Then explain it.”
“I was checking her phone.”
“While she was asleep?”
“My wife and I don’t hide things from each other.”
I stared at him.
“That isn’t true.”
He looked at me sharply.
It was a small reaction, but Lucía noticed it too.
“What else?” I asked.
Lucía hesitated.
Tomás answered instead.
“Check your bank account.”
The room seemed to tilt.
Esteban stood.
“Enough.”
Tomás blocked the doorway.
“No.”
For the first time that night, Esteban looked frightened.
Not guilty.
Not ashamed.
Frightened.
