Chapter 2 - The House of FacadesThe next morning, I returned to our home in Sacramento. It felt like walking into a crime scene—which, in every sense that mattered, it was. Lourdes was sitting in the living room, a cup of tea in her hand, wearing the same outfit she had worn the night before. She didn't look like a woman who had just been visited by the police; she looked like a woman waiting for an unruly child to come home for a lecture.
"Benjamin," she said, her voice dripping with artificial warmth. "I’m so glad you’re home. The police were here. It was all a misunderstanding. My father is old-fashioned, and Sophie is a bit of a dreamer. She told a lie, and he reacted. I was just trying to keep the peace."
I stood in the entryway, my hands deep in my pockets to keep from clenching them into fists. I thought of the video. I thought of the rice. I thought of her sitting at that table, eating dinner while our child knelt in agony.
"You sat there, Lourdes," I said, my voice dangerously calm. "You watched her. You didn't move. You didn't speak. You ate your dinner."
Her eyes flickered. For a split second, the mask slipped—a flash of pure, unadulterated contempt. "I was maintaining the structure of this family, Ben. You’re always gone. You’re always in some war zone, some distant country, chasing stories about people you don't even know. Someone had to make sure Sophie grew up with respect."
"Is that what you call it?" I stepped closer, my presence filling the room. "I’ve been recording you, Lourdes. For months. Every conversation, every bank transfer, every email you sent to your father about how to 'break' her spirit. I have it all."
May you like
She laughed—a brittle, nervous sound. "You’re an amateur, Benjamin. You think a few files will stand up in court? My father has friends in this precinct. The board of the school, the neighbors—they all know me as the perfect mother."
"You were," I said. "Until you got caught on camera."
