You do not breathe for a second.
The room seems to narrow around you, the dark-paneled library suddenly too small to hold what Ricardo Mendoza has just said. Rain ticks at the windows like impatient fingers. Somewhere behind you, an old grandfather clock keeps moving forward as though nothing in the world has changed, as though your father has not just rearranged the entire gravity of the Herrera family from beyond the grave.
Valeria is the first one to recover.
“I’m sorry,” she says, though she sounds like anything but sorry. “Could you read that again?”
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