That was when Ethan remembered Patricia’s tears.
Too fast.
Too ready.
No culpabilidad.
Panic.
“Where is Patricia now?” Ethan asked.
Aaron checked his tablet. “At home. We have her access suspended.”
“Send someone to make sure she’s safe.”
Naomi looked up. “You think she’s in danger?”
“I think people who panic are usually afraid of someone above them.”
Lupita susurró: “Karla no tenía miedo”.
—No —dijo Ethan—. “Karla estaba cómoda”.
The distinction mattered.
At 8:32 p.m., Aaron received another update.
Patricia no estaba en casa.
Su coche estaba en el lote del apartamento.
Su teléfono estaba dentro de su cocina.
Her back door was unlocked.
And on her counter sat a Grand Regent key envelope with one sentence written across the front in black marker.
ASK THE WIDOWER WHAT SARAH KNEW.
Ethan felt the room tilt.
No visiblemente.
Nadie más se habría dado cuenta.
But Lupita did.
“Ethan?”
Miró las palabras en la pantalla.
Sarah.
His wife’s name had not appeared in any audit file.
Not in Robert’s emails.
Not in the hotel complaints.
No en ningún lugar cerca de este lío.
She had been dead three years.
Cáncer.
Hospital bed.
Red roses.
Lily asleep in a chair beside her.
A final whisper in Ethan’s ear: Promise me you’ll keep building places where people feel safe.
Había creído que era el último secreto que Sarah llevaba.
Ahora su nombre se sentó en el mostrador de la cocina de Patricia Lane.
Ethan’s phone rang again.
Número desconocido.
Aaron reached for it. “Let me trace—”
Ethan answered before he could finish.
Silence.
Then breathing.
Una mujer llorando.
“¿Patricia?” Dijo Ethan.
Un susurro roto llegó.
– Lo siento.
“¿Dónde estás?”
“No sabía que traerían a tu esposa a eso”.
