“Mariana…” I said, my voice barely steady. “There’s no one else here.”

She smiled again.

But this time—

it wasn’t relief.

It was certainty.

“You used to say that too,” she murmured.

My breath caught.

Because suddenly—

I remembered something I had ignored.

Something small.

Something I had dismissed.

The first time my mother accused her…

Mariana had said the same thing.

“She’s watching me.”

I had thought it was fear.

Or exhaustion.

Or manipulation.

Now—

standing in that dim kitchen—

I wasn’t so sure anymore.

I took a slow step back.

And for the first time since all of this began…

I didn’t know who I was supposed to protect my son from.

Sometimes, the danger doesn’t disappear.

It just changes shape.

And this time—

I had no idea

if I was already too late.