Old, dead, wrapped in a zip-top plastic pouch.
You held it in both hands, staring at your own reflection in the black screen. The smell had soaked into the casing. Moisture had stained the edges. But it was intact.
You rose too fast and almost fell.
For a second you considered calling Miguel. Demanding answers. Screaming into voicemail until the whole lie came apart.
Instead, you did the smartest thing you had done in weeks.
You called the police.
The officer who arrived was young enough that his badge looked too heavy for his face, but his eyes sharpened the moment he stepped into the bedroom. He covered his nose with the back of his wrist, then crouched by the open mattress and the spread of contents on the floor.
“Do not touch anything else,” he said.
“I already did.”
“That’s okay. Just stop now.”
Another officer came. Then a detective. Then two evidence technicians in gloves who began photographing everything while you sat on the edge of a dining chair in your kitchen, wrapped in a blanket though the house was warm. You kept answering the same questions. How long had the smell been there? When did your husband leave? Had you ever heard the name Elena Morales? Did you know whether he had been married before?
“No,” you said each time. “No. No. No.”
The detective, a woman in her fifties with tired eyes and a calm voice, took the marriage certificate from an evidence bag and asked, “You married Miguel Alvarez in 2018?”
