On the morning of the fair, you button the one decent shirt you own and look in the mirror long enough to see what grief has done to your face. Then you go outside and find Lucía standing near the truck with Rosa in her arms. She is wearing a plain blue dress one of the neighbors altered for her. Her chin is lifted, but her hands shake.
“You don’t have to do this,” you say.
“Yes,” she answers. “I do.”
San Jacinto is already buzzing when you arrive. Livestock pens line the fairgrounds. Children run past with candied peanuts and dust on their knees. Men in boots pretend business is not theater while women exchange news with the efficiency of intelligence agencies. Somewhere a brass band is trying to outplay the wind.
When Esteban Márquez arrives, the crowd parts for him before it even means to.
He is polished in that oily way certain men cultivate, hat perfect, belt buckle bright, smile carved for photographs. Two municipal officials greet him like he is funding the Second Coming. He begins working the crowd with easy charm, unaware that Teresa has already spoken quietly to a regional prosecutor, that Doctor Salgado has copies of his records in a leather folder, that Father Benito has informed half the town something important is about to happen and they might want to stay close.
You stand near the auction ring with Lucía and Rosa beside you.
The moment Esteban sees them, the color drains from his face so fast it is almost elegant.
For a split second his mask slips completely. Not sadness. Not regret. Not surprise. Calculation. Panic. Fury. Then the public smile snaps back into place.
He walks toward you with the confidence of a man who has bullied his way through every problem he has ever had.
“Well,” he says loudly enough for nearby ears to catch it, “this is unexpected.”
Lucía goes rigid beside you, but she does not step back. Rosa stirs in her blanket and lets out a small sound.
Esteban glances at the baby once and then quickly away, which is all Teresa needs. She steps forward from the edge of the crowd like a blade coming out of a sheath.
“Esteban Márquez,” she says, clear and sharp, “before you speak another word, you should know that this woman has filed criminal allegations against you and your associates for assault, abandonment, intimidation, and attempted murder.”
