Fear, too, organizes itself.
Sometimes it wears a uniform.
Sometimes it wears an apron.
Sometimes she wears an engagement ring.
When the doctor came out, her face was tense.
“There are recent and old injuries,” she said. “This is sustained. Not accidental.”
The officer nodded and went straight to the office.
Valeria was still there, sitting very upright, as if she were still hoping someone would remember her last name, her dress, her role in the magazines.
They read her her rights in front of the same window where, minutes before, she had been drinking wine.
She didn’t scream.
She didn’t break down.
She just looked for Alejandro, hoping he would save her one last time.
He didn’t.
When they took her away, she walked past me and murmured:
“This isn’t over.”
He might have been right.
But for her, one thing was ending.
Impunity.
