Finally Rodrigo.
He stood on the sidewalk, looking at the house.
No.
Looking through it.
Trying to remember where I kept things. Trying to calculate what doors were still open to him.
Then he looked at me.
For the first time that morning, I saw fear.
Not much.
Just a flicker.
But fear is like a crack in tile. Once you see it, you know where the pressure will spread.
He got into the SUV.
They drove away.
The street exhaled.
The older officer handed me back the blue folder.
“Change all passwords,” he said.
“I already did.”
“Good. Do you have somewhere else to stay?”
I looked behind me at the staircase, the kitchen tile, the wedding photo, the sunlight falling across the floor I had paid for month after month while Rodrigo said his commission was late, his mother needed money, the car needed repairs, life was expensive.
“Yes,” I said. “Here.”
He nodded as if he understood.
When they left, I closed the door.
Locked it.
Latched the chain.
Then I walked straight to the wedding photo, lifted it off the wall, and dropped it into the trash.
The glass cracked.
That was when I finally made coffee again.
