It seeped into the room the way dampness creeps into walls—quietly, patiently, until one day it is everywhere and you can no longer remember what the air used to feel like before it changed.

Her eyes showed no fear.

They showed calculation.

He looked at the ripped mattress.

The open packages.

The photos were thrown away.

And then he looked at me.

He didn’t scream.

He wasn’t faking it.

He didn’t ask what that meant.

He just closed the door behind him.

With insurance.

That click pierced my chest.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he said.

I took a step back, pointing the box cutter at him.

—Don’t come any closer.

He looked down at the box cutter and let out a short, almost sad laugh.

—Lucía, listen. It didn’t happen the way you think.

“Shut up!” I yelled, my voice breaking. “Who was Mariana? What did you do to her?”

For the first time, something moved on her face.

Irritation.

Fatigue.

Perhaps anger.

“She was my wife before you,” he said. “And she still was legally. I was going to fix it.”

I felt like I couldn’t breathe.

Before me.

Legally.

Eight years.