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.
Voir la suite sur la page suivante:
