in front of a building.
She had one arm around another man.
A worker wearing a blue hard hat.
My husband.
Diego.
The man she had buried two years earlier.
I stared at the photograph as my hands began to tremble.
Then I heard behind me:
-Sofia.
I turned around.
Vicente was at the door.
For the first time since I had known him, he didn’t seem dangerous.
He looked scared.
—Why do you have a photograph of my husband?
Vicente slowly closed the door.
And I realized that I
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