But as you turned to leave, you heard his breathing change.
It was too shallow.
You stopped.
Years of caring for your grandmother had trained your ears. Sleep had rhythms. Pain had rhythms. Panic had rhythms too. Rodrigo Cárdenas was pretending to sleep, yes, but underneath the performance, something else was happening.
His fingers were pressed too tightly against his chest.
His jaw was clenched.
His breath hitched once.
You set the tray down silently and stepped closer.
“Sir?”
No answer.
You looked at the coffee table. No medication. No water. No sign he had eaten. You noticed the slight tremor in his hand and the grayness around his mouth.
This was no longer a rich man’s trap.
This was a body sending warnings.
You knelt beside the sofa and checked his pulse at his wrist.
