“Rest now, Lucía,” she whispered, her voice dripping with venomous sweetness. “Don’t worry about anything. We’ll take care of… everything.”
She walked out, and the air in the room felt lighter, cleaner, without her in it. But her words remained, hanging over me like a guillotine blade.
Thirty days.
You learn a lot about people when they think you are furniture. They stop filtering. They shed their masks.
It was Day 12. A nurse had left a baby monitor on the counter near my bed. It was intended to let me hear my daughter in the nursery, a kindness I cherished. But someone had moved the other receiver. It wasn’t in the nursery. It was in the private family waiting room down the hall.
Static crackled, and then, voices drifted in. Crystal clear.
“This is actually perfect, Andrés. Stop looking so morose,” Teresa’s voice cut through the static.
“She’s my wife, mother. It feels… wrong,” Andrés said. But he sounded bored, not guilty.
“She is a line item on an expense report now,” Teresa retorted. “Look at the numbers. With her out of the picture, the life insurance policy triggers. The double indemnity clause because it was a ‘medical accident.’ That’s three million pesos, Andrés.”
“And the house?”
“Yours. Fully. We transfer the deed the day after the funeral. And Karla can finally move in properly. She’s been waiting in the wings long enough.”
My heart hammered against my ribs, a trapped bird.
Karla Ramírez. Andrés’s executive assistant. The woman who brought me soup when I had the flu. The woman who smiled too wide and laughed too loud at Andrés’s jokes. The woman I had defended when my friends called her “shady.”
“Karla is already asking about redecorating the nursery,” Andrés said, a smile audible in his voice now. “She hates Lucía’s taste. Too… rustic.”
“See?” Teresa purred. “It’s a fresh start. A clean slate. We just wait out the clock. Eighteen more days. We do a small service. Closed casket. We tell her parents it was quick and merciful. No drama.”
“And her parents?”
“I’ve handled them,” Teresa said dismissively. “They are simple people from Guadalajara. They are intimidated by the city, by the hospital. I told them visiting hours are restricted. They won’t know a thing until we send them the ashes.”
Then, a third voice joined them. Soft. Sugary.
“Baby? Are you done with the witch?”
Karla.