Through the window Clara could see a small girl with light brown hair sitting alone on a bench in the yard, staring at nothing.
“Does anyone know what she whispered to her father?” Clara asked.
“No one. But whatever it was, it’s eating her alive from the inside.”
Five years earlier—on the night everything shattered—the Vargas home had been quiet.
Laura had tucked five-year-old Elena into bed early, the way she always did.
The little girl slept curled around her favorite stuffed rabbit, unaware of the storm gathering downstairs.
In the living room, Mateo Vargas was on his fifth whiskey.
He had lost his construction job that week. The company folded overnight. At 42, starting over felt impossible.
Laura was in the kitchen on the phone, voice low and furious.
“I told you never to call me again. What you did is unforgivable. If you don’t return what you stole, I’m going public.”
A pause.
“I don’t care who you know. I have proof.”
She slammed the phone down and turned to find Mateo watching her from the doorway.
