Answer me. This isn’t funny.
Where’s my stuff?
At 1:14 a.m., he started pounding on the front door. I watched him through the doorbell camera. There he was, still wearing the same navy shirt from last Sunday, stumbling across my porch and acting furious, as if he were the one who had been wronged.
I sent him one final text:
You said you were sleeping with Lara. I just helped with the move.
After that, nothing.
I thought he had finally gone somewhere else to sort out his mess. I thought the night had reached its limit.
I was wrong.
At three in the morning, my phone lit up the bedroom like flashing police lights. The number was unknown. I answered with a heavy chest, expecting Emiliano—either begging or threatening. But it wasn’t him.
It was a woman trying not to cry.
“Valeria? It’s Lara… I think your boyfriend is lying in my garden.”
I sat down so suddenly I nearly missed the edge of the bed. The room still smelled of fresh paint from the new metal frames and of the anxiety I’d been carrying around for weeks.
“Is he hurt?” I asked automatically.
“He’s drunk… or worse. A while ago he was pounding on my door, shouting your name, then mine, then saying I had ruined his life. My neighbor called the police. But… I found something in one of the bags he brought from your house. And you need to know before they arrive.”
My stomach dropped.
