He asked me if he was still there.
I told him no, that he had left, that he had spoken on the phone, that he would return, that I didn’t trust how much time we had.
He asked us to lock ourselves in a room if we could.
I dragged Tommy to the master bedroom bathroom.
I locked it.
I sat him down against the tub and moistened his lips with the few drops of water I could gather in a glass.
I asked him to look at me, to keep breathing, not to fall asleep, to think about anything, about his school, about his imaginary dog, about his favorite video game, about me.
While I was answering the operator’s questions, my phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
CHECK THE TRASH. THERE’S EVIDENCE. COME BACK.
I read the message three times.
He had no name.
There was no explanation.
Only that dry urgency that somehow seemed to come from someone who knew exactly what was happening and, for his own reasons, had decided to intervene from the shadows.
In the distance, sirens began to sound.
Tommy squeezed my hand desperately.
I was about to believe that help would arrive in time, that the horror had already shown its worst face, when I heard something that chilled me to the bone.
The front doorknob.
Turning again.
Steven had returned.
And he wasn’t alone.
There were two steps.
A female voice whispered something I couldn’t understand.
Then Steven’s, lower, more tense, less confident than before.
—We have to do it right. Nothing can be left out.
My son started trembling.
I covered his mouth with my hand just long enough for him to understand that silence was no longer fear, but defense.
The sound of drawers was heard.
Doors.
Furniture moving.
Footsteps in the hallway.
The woman asked where we were.
Steven replied that it was probably in the bathroom, that I always hid when things got tough, and that sentence showed me something fierce: even in the midst of crime he was still using the language with which he had reduced me for years.
Dramatic.
