“He carried the tray,” he corrects. “Inés brewed it. Sofía’s been very upset lately. We’ve had family tension. My mother can be difficult.” He spreads his hands in that charmingly helpless way people once found irresistible at dinner parties. “I’m afraid my wife may be confusing fear with fact.”
The officer nods, but not in agreement.
He writes that down too.
By the time evening falls over Seville and the hospital windows turn black with reflection, you are exhausted down to your bones. Mercedes remains in intensive observation. The doctors will not say more. Tomás has made six phone calls, spoken to two cousins, one priest, and a man named Rafael you know from his business dinners but have never trusted. He has not once asked you, privately or publicly, whether you are all right.
Instead, he finally corners you outside the vending machines.
His face changes the moment no one else can see it.
The softness drops away. The husband-mask, the grieving-son mask, the polished-citizen mask—gone. What remains is the man beneath them all, and he looks at you with such clean hatred that your skin goes cold.
“Why did you switch them?” he asks.
There is no use pretending now.
You hold his gaze. “Because you wanted me to drink it.”
For one terrifying second, he almost smiles.
Not from humor. From recognition. Like two players finally admitting they are playing the same game, though only one of them came prepared for it. Then the smile vanishes and he steps closer, lowering his voice until it is barely more than breath.
“You have no idea what you’ve done.”
You should be afraid.
“Did she eat or drink anything unusual?” he asks.
You open your mouth, and Tomás beats you to it.
“Just coffee and toast,” he says. “The same as everyone else.”
Everyone else.
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