“stop playing games.”
I read the message twice.
Then I deleted it from the screen without replying.
Not because I wasn’t afraid.
I was so afraid that my legs were shaking underneath the linen pants Matthew chose for the trip, as if even my clothes had to obey him.
I walked toward the taxi stand with my purse clutched tight against my chest.
Behind me, the airport kept breathing with its noise of suitcases, announcements, and goodbyes, but I felt as if every loudspeaker was pronouncing my name.
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Pause
00:00
00:02
00:36
Mute
“Helena Barbosa, return to your son.”
Nobody said that.
But my head did.
My phone started vibrating nonstop.
Matthew was calling.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
I didn’t answer.
I got into the first taxi I found.
“Where to, ma’am?”
I opened my mouth.
I didn’t know.
My house in Brooklyn wasn’t mine anymore, according to Matthew.
He said it was “in the process of being sold” and that was why I had to go to France while he finished everything.
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But Lily had written:
“look for the black square.”
The house.
The crossed-out window.
The dark square.
“Brooklyn,” I said. “Park Slope, near Seventh Avenue.”
The driver looked at me through the rearview mirror.
“It is going to rain.”
I looked at the gray sky over New York.
“Then drive fast.”
