Chapter 2 - Not Here
Rodrigo swallowed.
“Not here.”
Julián smiled once.
There was no warmth in it.
“You’re worried about here?”
Teresa found her voice from the floor.
“Julián, please. You are grieving. You are not thinking clearly.”
He turned his head toward her.
“She died holding his button.”
Teresa’s lips trembled.
“It could have happened earlier.”
“Earlier when?”
No answer.
Julián stepped toward her.
Rodrigo moved behind him.
A small shift.
Barely anything.
But Julián heard the leather sole against polished wood.
He turned back instantly.
Rodrigo stopped.
The guests did not breathe.
Julián’s voice dropped.
“Do not move behind me again.”
Rodrigo’s jaw tightened.
“You’re acting insane.”
“No,” Julián said. “I’m acting late.”
That sentence hurt more than he expected.
Late.
He had been late for the hospital.
Late for the truth.
Late for the last call Camila made from the mansion study, a call he had missed because he was in a boardroom in Boston listening to men argue over resort financing while his wife was in their home, pregnant, frightened, and apparently fighting his brother hard enough to tear a button from his suit.
Camila had left a voicemail.
He had not listened to it until after the funeral home had already taken her body.
He had been too shattered.
Too surrounded.
Too managed.
Teresa told him, “Not now, darling. Don’t torture yourself.”
Rodrigo told him, “There’s nothing on that phone that will bring her back.”
So he had placed the phone facedown on his nightstand and let grief swallow him.
Now he remembered the notification.
One voicemail.
Camila.
11:42 p.m.
The night she died.
Julián looked toward the coffin again.
“I want the room cleared.”
Teresa’s head snapped up.
“No.”
He looked at her.
“This is no longer a funeral.”
A gray-haired family attorney sitting near the back stood slowly.
“Julián—”
“Everyone leaves,” Julián said. “Except Teresa. Rodrigo. And Mr. Bell.”
Mr. Bell, the attorney, went pale.
“I don’t represent criminal matters.”
Julián’s eyes stayed on Rodrigo.
“You might begin learning.”
The guests began moving in stunned silence.
Chairs scraped softly.
Black dresses brushed against the polished floor.
One aunt covered her mouth as she passed Camila’s coffin.
Another guest looked at Rodrigo’s missing button and turned away quickly, as if seeing it made her responsible.
Within two minutes, the drawing room emptied.
Only the coffin remained.
The candles.
The flowers.
The chandelier.
Julián.
Teresa.
Rodrigo.
Mr. Bell.
And Camila.
Julián removed a clean handkerchief from his pocket and placed the navy-blue button inside it.
Rodrigo watched every movement.
“You’re being theatrical.”
Julián folded the cloth once.
“Camila loved theater.”
Rodrigo’s eyes flashed.
“Don’t.”
The word came too fast.
Too personal.
Julián looked at him.
“What did you say to her before she died?”
Rodrigo’s nostrils flared.
“I wasn’t with her.”
“Then why is your button in her hand?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why is your jaw scratched?”
Rodrigo touched the mark before he could stop himself.
Second mistake.
Julián’s eyes sharpened.
Teresa stood carefully, one hand still on the fallen chair.
“She was upset that night,” Teresa said. “You know Camila was emotional during the pregnancy.”
Julián turned.
The room seemed to drop ten degrees.
“Do not use her pregnancy to make her sound unstable.”
Teresa closed her mouth.
Camila had been seven months pregnant.
Seven months and four days.
A little girl.
Their daughter.
Sofia.
They had chosen the name in bed on a rainy Sunday morning while Camila balanced a bowl of strawberries on her stomach and said, “She’s going to be dramatic. I can tell.”
Julián had laughed.
“She kicks once after music starts.”
“That’s called timing.”
He had rested his hand on her belly.
Sofia kicked again.
Camila smiled.
“See? Theater.”
Now Camila lay in a coffin, and everyone had told him Sofia was gone too.
The thought hit him again with fresh cruelty.
Wife.
Daughter.
May you like
Both buried inside one sentence.
Accident.
