I drove back to the gated community with frozen hands. The Arizona sky was already bruised purple, and in the distance, the palm trees looked like giant skeletons against the dusk. We passed streets where people were heading out for coffee, for dinner, at places that smelled of grilled meat and toasted corn.
Everything felt offensively normal.
At the house, the security guard let us in with his mouth agape. The detective demanded the entry and exit logs since Friday. The man began to sweat. “Mrs. Carla said no records were to be handed over without authorization.” “I am the authorization,” the detective said, flashing her badge.
We entered. The air was still hot and stale. In the kitchen, the wine glass with the lipstick stain was exactly where I’d seen it. On the table, the family photo smiled with an unbearable cruelty.
The detectives checked the guest room. They took photos of the lock, the empty bottle, the napkin. I stood in the doorway, hugging myself.
Then I heard a buzz. It was coming from the study bookshelf. “There’s a camera,” I said.
The detective stepped closer. It was a small camera, hidden among ceramic ornaments. It was pointed at the hallway. At the hallway where Diego’s door was.
“Carla was recording,” I whispered.
The detective disconnected the device and bagged it as evidence. We kept searching. In the desk drawer, we found a folder with printed pages. At first, I thought they were bank statements. Then I saw my name.
“Paula Mendoza: history of anxiety, emotional instability, conflict with Carla.”
The air left my lungs. There were screenshots of my old posts. A photo from years ago, when I cried over my divorce and wrote that I felt lonely. Cropped conversations where I’d said Diego was like a son to me. Everything arranged to make me look obsessed.
The detective turned to me. “Don’t say anything else without a lawyer once this escalates.” “Escalates?”
In response, my phone buzzed. It was Carla. No message. A call. The detective held up a hand. “Answer it. Speakerphone.”
I obeyed.
“Paula,” Carla said, with a poisonous calm. “Where is my son?” My throat went dry. “In the hospital.”
Silence. Then, a small laugh. “Do you realize what you’ve just done?” “I took him out of a locked room.” “You broke into my house without permission and took a minor. That’s called kidnapping, honey.”
The detective gestured for me to keep going. “You asked me to come over.” “To feed the dog,” Carla replied. “Not to rummage through my rooms. Diego was being punished. He’s my son. You’re nobody.”
I felt blood pounding in my temples. “You left him without water.” “You’re exaggerating. You always exaggerate. That’s why Rick didn’t want you around anymore. That’s why he signed the restraining order.”
