Chapter 3: What the Rabbit Knew
Sofía's voice was barely a breath.
"She said Mamá didn't really love us.
She said Mamá was glad to go."
The room went silent in a way that had nothing to do with sound.
Roberto's hand stayed on his daughter's back.
Steady.
He would not let it shake in front of her.
He would not let her feel, through his palm, what those words had just done to him.
"When did she say that, mi amor?"
"At night." Sofía pressed her face against his shoulder.
"When you weren't home.
She comes into my room sometimes.
She says I should know the truth about Mamá."
He looked up.
Vanessa had not moved.
She stood with her arms at her sides now, chin still raised, wearing the expression she used in rooms where she expected to win.
"She's a child," Vanessa said.
"She misunderstood."
"She's seven." Roberto's voice was flat.
"And she repeated it word for word."
"Roberto, you're being—"
"María." He turned.
"Take Sofía upstairs, please."
María was already moving.
She gathered Sofía gently, one hand on the small shoulders, guiding her toward the hallway.
Sofía kept one hand stretched back toward her father until the distance made it impossible.
The moment they were gone, Roberto stood.
He did not cross the room.
He did not need to.
"How long have you been going into her room at night?"
Vanessa's jaw shifted.
"I've been trying to connect with her.
You're never here, Roberto.
Someone has to—"
"Answer the question."
"I was trying to help her understand her mother was not—"
"Her mother," he said, "saved Sofía's life.
She put herself between our daughter and the impact.
She is the reason Sofía is alive and not—" He stopped.
"Do not speak about her again.
Not in this house.
Not to my daughter.
Not ever."
Vanessa's composure cracked — just at the edges.
Her voice dropped.
"You've been grieving a ghost for four years.
I have been here.
Real.
Present.
And you treat me like a guest you're waiting to leave."
"Then leave."
She blinked.
"I'm asking you to leave this house tonight." His voice did not rise.
"I'll have your things arranged by morning."
The composure came back fast — too fast.
Her chin lifted again.
Her eyes steadied.
"You're making a mistake," she said.
"You're emotional.
You're not thinking clearly."
"I'm thinking more clearly than I have in two years."
"Roberto." Something shifted in her tone.
Softer now.
Deliberate.
"Think about what you're doing.
Think about the foundation gala next month.
The Vásquez partnership.
Think about what it looks like when—"
"Get out of my living room."
She looked at him for a long moment.
Then she picked up her bag from the chair by the window — slowly, without hurry, as if she were choosing to leave rather than being asked — and walked toward the stairs.
Her heels struck the marble.
One step.
Two.
Then she stopped.
"You should ask María," she said, without turning around, "how many times she's threatened to tell you.
And why she never did."
She continued up the stairs.
Roberto stood in the empty room.
The spilled wine had dried at the edge of the rug.
The chocolate mousse box lay on its side near the door where he had dropped it.
He looked at it for a moment.
Then he walked to the kitchen, picked up his phone, and called his lawyer.
It rang twice.
"Andrés.
I need you tomorrow morning.
May you like
Early." A pause.
"And I need to know what I signed two years ago."
