Fabian was tall and soft-spoken and steady, the friend who always turned up in an emergency.

During my hard third trimester he had hauled the heavy salt bags for our water softener, driven Noelia to the dentist, picked up my prescriptions when I wasn’t allowed to drive.

And Matthias had taken every hour of that quiet decency and twisted it into something filthy.

“We’re okay, Fabian,” I said.

“I just need some space.” He stepped closer to the screen.

“Adela — if I ever did something that crossed a line, that made him uncomfortable, I need you to tell me.” “It’s not you,” I said, and then, because I was exhausted and honest, “or maybe it is.