PART 2 — THE FIRST LIE
I barely slept that night.
At six in the morning, I was already sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee I hadn’t touched.
Sebastian walked in wearing the same calm expression he’d worn for years.
“Good morning.”
I looked at him.
“Morning.”
He kissed my forehead.
I almost pulled away.
Almost.
Instead, I forced myself to smile.
“Did you sleep?”
“Not really.”
He gave a small laugh.
“Neither did I.”
I studied his face.
Every familiar feature suddenly felt like evidence.
The dark eyes.
The crooked smile.
The tiny line beside his mouth.
Everything I had once considered comforting now terrified me.
Sebastian opened the refrigerator.
“Camila will be home around noon.”
“Good.”
He turned around.
“Mariana?”
“Yes?”
“Are you okay?”
I stared at him.
“I think I’m getting a migraine.”
He nodded.
“Do you want me to call the doctor?”
“No.”
His eyes remained on me for several seconds.
Then he said something that made my stomach twist.
“You always get migraines when you’re scared.”
I froze.
I had never told Sebastian that.
Santiago knew.
Only Santiago knew.
I forced a smile.
“It’s nothing.”
He nodded.
But when he turned away, I saw his jaw tighten.
He knew something had changed.
PART 3 — THE OLD PHOTOGRAPH
After Sebastian left for work, I went upstairs.
I opened the closet where I kept Santiago’s belongings.
For three years, I had avoided touching most of them.
His old shirts.
His watch.
His university jacket.
Photographs.
I found the album from our first years together.
I flipped through the pages.
Then I found the photograph I was looking for.
It was taken two months before Santiago died.
He was standing beside me at a lake.
He was wearing swim shorts.
I zoomed in on his left hip.
There was no scar.
None.
My hands began to shake.
I found another photograph.
No scar.
Another.
Nothing.
I sat on the floor.
Then I remembered something.
The accident happened in December 2019.
The shower accident happened in 2017.
If Santiago had received that scar, it should have been visible in every photograph afterward.
But it wasn’t.
I stared at the wedding ring on my finger.
Then another thought hit me.
The body had been burned beyond recognition.
They had identified Santiago through his belongings.
His wedding band.
His wallet.
His driver’s license.
And the testimony of another driver.
Not through DNA.
My breathing became shallow.
I immediately called the county medical examiner’s office.
A woman answered.
“Medical examiner’s office.”
“I need information about a case from December 2019.”
“Are you a family member?”
“Yes. The deceased was my husband.”
She asked for the name.
“Santiago Morales.”
There was a pause.
“Mrs. Morales, that case is archived.”
“Was DNA testing performed?”
Another pause.
“I can’t discuss that without authorization.”
“I need to know.”
“I can tell you that the identification was considered conclusive at the time.”
“At the time?”
The woman hesitated.
“Yes.”
My heart began pounding.
“What does that mean?”
She lowered her voice.
“Mrs. Morales, if you’re questioning the identification, you should speak with the detective who handled the case.”
“Who was that?”
She gave me a name.
Detective Robert Hale.
Then she added:
“But there’s something you should know.”
“What?”
“He retired last year.”
PART 4 — THE BOX IN THE GARAGE
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