Steps.
Slow. Calculated.
Miguel had returned.
Without thinking, Clara helped the old man lie down and ran to the kitchen. She grabbed the envelope and hid it under her blouse. Her heart was beating so hard it seemed to betray her.
Miguel appeared in the hallway.
Alone this time.
« I forgot my cell phone, » he said, but his eyes scanned every corner.
He didn’t look like someone searching for a phone.
He looked like someone checking if something had been moved.
Clara crossed her arms, trying to appear calm.
« It’s in the living room. »
Miguel walked over there, but before going in, he stopped.
« Did he say anything?
» « No. »
His gaze lingered on her for seconds that were far too long.
Then he went inside, picked up the device from the table—exactly where he’d left it—and smiled slightly.
“Careful, Clara. Sometimes, the truth hurts more than it protects.”
When the car disappeared again, Clara didn’t wait.
She went down to the basement.
The air was damp and heavy. The lamp flickered. The old bookcase leaned against the concrete wall, full of dusty boxes.
With effort, she pushed it aside.
Behind it, a small metal door.
The small metal door was cold to the touch.
