You did not touch the handle.
You kept walking.
On the third day, the test came.
You didn’t know it was a test at first.
Mrs. Herrera told you Mr. Cárdenas had fallen asleep in the library and that you should collect the empty coffee cups quietly. Her voice was too casual. The other housekeeper, Pilar, lowered her eyes when she heard it.
That was your warning.
You entered the library with a tray in both hands.
Rodrigo was lying on the leather sofa, one arm over his chest, eyes closed. His jacket was draped over a chair. On the desk, almost too visible, sat a luxury watch, a thick envelope of cash, and a velvet box half-open with cufflinks inside.
You almost laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because it was insulting.
Rich people sometimes believed poverty made honesty unusual. They set traps and called them caution. They left money out like bait, then congratulated themselves for discovering hunger.
You collected the coffee cups.
You did not touch the watch.
You did not touch the envelope.
You did not touch the velvet box.
