“Did he threaten you?”
Mariana looked down at the folder in her hands. “Not exactly.”
“What happened?”
Mariana told her. The destroyed living room. The books. The soup. Rodrigo pouring her dinner into the sink while Teresa watched.
Anika was silent for three seconds.
Then she said, “I’m bringing my brother.”
“Marcus?”
“He’s off duty tonight.”
Marcus Brooks was a Chicago police sergeant, though Anika usually introduced him as “my brother who knows when men are lying.” Mariana almost said no. Shame rushed up fast, familiar and sour. She did not want police at her house. She did not want neighbors watching. She did not want Rodrigo to say she was dramatic. Then she looked at the blue folder again and remembered the soup sliding down the drain.
“Okay,” she said.
After hanging up, Mariana opened her banking app and sent one more message. Not to Rodrigo. Not to Teresa. To her attorney, Claire Whitaker, who had advised her after Rodrigo’s first failed attempt to put his name on the deed “for unity.” Mariana had never told Rodrigo she had kept Claire on retainer. She typed: I need to enforce occupancy and property boundaries. Tonight if possible. Husband and MIL refusing respect, damaging home. I have documents. Please call when available.
