“Rick,” Valeria says. “Or Richard. The woman called him Ricky once when they were in the kitchen. She’s not his wife. She just tells the kids to call her Mom when anyone’s watching.”
You sit back on your heels.
So the fake relatives are not even pretending to be a real family consistently. That means the performance inside your home is sloppier than what they were planning outside it. Con artists. Not cousins. Not guests. Occupiers with backpacks and children and a script designed to look harmless enough that neighbors would explain away the rest.
Valeria folds her hands in her lap and looks at the carpet.
“I didn’t know how to tell you,” she says. “They took my phone. Your mom started answering your calls from another room. Then she told everyone I was anxious and dramatic and couldn’t manage the household while you were gone. After a while, even your dad stopped looking surprised.”
That sentence lands like a knife.
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