Not from amusement, but because bad lies have a recognizable shape, and you’re staring straight at one. Lucía has never been careless with words. Everything she says is usually measured. Hearing her stumble like this tells you the truth is far bigger than a strange noise in the night.
“You took my hand,” you say. “And you moved your head into the light.”
She sets the spoon aside. When she finally turns, her expression looks worn, as if the day has already exhausted her. “Please,” she says quietly, “not here.”
That answer frustrates you more than denial.
Not here. In this house, nothing is ever addressed where it happens. Fear drifts from room to room wrapped in chores, silence, and polite explanations about customs and comfort. For two weeks, you’ve lived with the inconvenience, the gossip, the quiet humiliation of knowing others are imagining things about your home that no decent family wants imagined.
“Then where?” you ask.
Lucía glances toward the stairs.
“Tonight,” she says. “On the roof. After everyone’s asleep.”
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