Not the polite kind that rolls somewhere far beyond the mountains and fades before it can mean anything, but the kind that lands hard over the house and rattles the windows in their frames. For a few seconds you lie still beneath the blanket, disoriented, listening to the rain lash the gutters and the old pipes shiver behind the walls. Monterrey storms always seemed to arrive with personality, loud and theatrical, as if the sky itself had opinions.
Then you hear the voices.
At first you think you are still dreaming. Teresa almost never leaves her room after nine, and at this hour the whole house should be sealed in silence except for the storm. But the voices are real. One is low and tense, unmistakably your husband’s. The other is thinner, strained, almost hoarse, and absolutely not Teresa’s.
You sit up so quickly the sheet twists around your legs.
