Chapter 3 — She Wasn’t There

A few minutes after I fled back to our room, Mariana came in through the side door that connected to the kitchen, holding a damp t-shirt in her hands.

She had not been feeling well that evening; her body had chosen our wedding night, of all nights, to be uncooperative, and she had slipped out rather than wake me.

The shirt had gotten stained, she explained, and she had gone to rinse it in the utility sink before the stain could set.

It was the most ordinary explanation in the world.

“Did you walk past my dad’s room?” I asked.