He’ll never change.
The words repeat in my head like a prayer meant to keep my heart from betraying me.
My key slides toward the lock.
That’s when the first wrong thing happens.
Usually the lock sticks. The building is old and crooked, like everything else around here. Usually I have to jiggle it, swear under my breath, shove my shoulder into the door like I’m wrestling the place open.
Tonight the key slides in smooth.
Too smooth.
The knob turns easily.
The door swings inward like it has been waiting for me.
My stomach drops hard enough to make me pause in the doorway.
The air coming from my apartment feels wrong. Thick. Stale. Too warm. Like the AC has been off on purpose so the heat can sit in the corners and make everything feel sticky. I paid the electric bill, right?
I don’t step in right away.
Instead I stand there listening, pulse hammering against my ribs.
No footsteps.
No voices.
No Rico.
Just the distant hum of Miami traffic drifting through open windows and the faint scrape of something shifting somewhere inside.
Open windows?
My mouth goes dry.
“Disco,” I whisper.
Normally he’d answer. He’d shout in Spanish, whistle, call me mami, demand attention like he owns the world and I’m his audience.
Silence answers me.
My throat tightens.
I step inside.
And the world tilts sideways.
My living room looks like a hurricane tore through it and then came back for a second round just to be cruel. Couch cushions are ripped open, white stuffing spilling across the floor like dirty snow. One lamp lies on its side. Broken glass glitters across the tile like ice. The closet door hangs crooked on a single hinge.
I take a slow step forward, brain struggling to catch up with what my eyes are seeing.
The garment bags are gone.
The designer shopping bags are gone.
The jewelry box sits open on the kitchen counter, the satin ribbon tossed aside like trash.
