“Alma.”
Efren’s voice cuts through the darkness, pulling me out of the memory. I look up to find him in the doorway. He stops there, his face falling when he sees me. Releasing the sheet twisted in my fists, I look down at my hands, turning them over under the moonlight.
No blood.
No Esteban.
There’s concern etched deep in Efren’s eyes when he crosses the room. I jump into his arms, where he holds me there.
“It was me,” I whisper. “I killed him.” The words tremble in my throat, but saying them out loud carries a strange feeling of relief.
“Hey,” Efren murmurs. He places a kiss on the top of my head. “You’re okay. I’m here, Kitten. I’m always going to be here.”
He rocks me gently in his embrace like I’m a child he wants to coo back to sleep. I let my tears fall, the last mourning I will ever do for Esteban, for me, for the night I could never make sense of.
“He drugged me. Esteban… he…” The words crumble in my throat. “I killed him, Efren.”
“Shh.” His hand strokes my hair, gentle and slow. “It’s over, Alma. You’re here. With me.”
I rest my head against his chest, the steady rhythm of his heart grounding me as I try to breathe through the memories.
“Oh God,” I whisper. “I’m a fucking murderer.”
“Stop.” Efren’s voice hardens. He pulls back and forces me to look at the storm building in his eyes. “You killed a serial rapist. A future cop who killed other women and would’ve killed more if you hadn’t stopped him.”
I blink, confusion cutting through the fog.
“Sweetheart, don’t make me get rough. I wasn’t planning on hurting you as badly as the others.”
“Others. There were others?” I ask Efren.
“Come here.” He takes my hand, his grip firm, and leads me toward the closet.
The sheet stays clutched around me, the fabric trailing behind us. I watch as he kneels, pushing aside old boots and boxes until his fingers find a hidden latch in the floorboards. With a low creak, the panel lifts. He reaches inside and pulls out a stack of old VHS tapes, each one marked with a number in fading ink.
“These,” he says, his voice low, “are recordings of his victims.”
My heart stutters.
His victims.
Efren doesn’t say anything at first, just stares down at the tapes, jaw tight, breath shallow. The rage simmering beneath his calm is almost palpable. When he finally looks up, his expression has shifted.
“He filmed everything. Every assault. Every time he thought he was untouchable.” Efren’s hands tremble as he holds one of the tapes up to the light.
“How long have you known?” I take a step back. “Why didn’t you turn him in!”
“I wanted to, Alma! Believe me. I wanted nothing more than for the world to know the type of person he was. But he threatened to set me up. If I went to jail, he would have hurt you. I wasn’t willing to risk that!”
Efren drops the VHSs back into the hidden compartment and stands to face me. His knuckles graze my jaw.
“I am sorry that I couldn’t protect these women. By the time I even realized what he was doing, it was too late. But you”—he looks at me again, voice breaking slightly—“you were the one he couldn’t destroy.”
Something hot twists inside me. The room falls silent with the weight of what lies between us.
“All those times you told me to leave. It wasn’t because?—”
“Because I hated you? No, Kitten. I wanted to protect you.”
