“I’ve handled them,” Teresa said dismissively. “They are simple people from Guadalajara. They are intimidated by the city, by the hospital. I told them visiting hours are restricted. They won’t know a thing until we send them the ashes.”
Then, a third voice joined them. Soft. Sugary.
“Baby? Are you done with the witch?”
Karla.
“Almost,” Andrés said. I heard the rustle of fabric, the sound of a kiss. “Just discussing the timeline.”
“Good,” Karla giggled. “Because I really don’t want to wait to be a mother to that baby. My baby.”
Rage is a powerful fuel. If I could have moved, I would have torn the IVs from my arms and strangled them all. But I couldn’t. I lay there, forcing my heart to keep beating, forcing my brain to record every word.
Reflex, the nurse had said when she wiped a tear from my eye later that day.
It wasn’t a reflex. It was a promise.
Day 20. The nurses were my spies, though they didn’t know it. They gossiped while they changed my sheets, assuming I was deaf to the world.
“Did you see the Instagram post?” Nurse Elena whispered to Nurse Sofia.
“The one from the ‘family friend’?” Sofia snorted. “Disgusting.”