“Then where?” you ask.
Lucía flicks her gaze toward the stairs.
Upstairs, you hear your mother moving in her room on the second floor, the faint thud of a dresser drawer closing. Esteban is still asleep on the third floor—or pretending to be. Your younger brother Tomás, Lucía’s husband, left before sunrise for his shift at the parts warehouse. The house is waking the way houses always do, in fragments, and suddenly you resent the timing of ordinary life.
“Tonight,” Lucía says. “On the roof. After everyone’s asleep.”
You should insist on now.
You should demand answers in daylight, in the kitchen, surrounded by cabinets, clean dishes, and practical objects that could stand as witnesses. But something in Lucía’s face stops you. It is not stubbornness. It is fear stretched thin enough to resemble courtesy.
