“How do you know that?” Marcos asked, turning slowly to face him. “The officer only told me there was an accident.”
Gustavo looked down at his phone, his thumb instantly locking the screen as the back lights faded.
Inside the house, the telephone began to ring again, its distant chime echoing through the open front door.
Marcos turned and walked back into the kitchen, his wet shoes leaving dark tracks across the linoleum floor. He picked up the receiver with a cold hand, his eyes falling on the scattered pine pieces of the unfinished crib.
“Mr. Almeida,” the officer’s voice returned, sounding more formal now. “I need to confirm the spelling of your wife’s name for the medical examiner’s report.”
Marcos dropped the plastic screws for the crib onto the rug as the police officer confirms his wife’s name.
Gustavo stood up, his metal belt buckle clinking against the side of the plastic chair.
“We should go to the station now,” Detective Roy said, his slow, gravelly drawl filling the small room. He adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses and looked at the clipboard in his hand.
Marcos did not move. He kept his fingers locked together, his thumb repeatedly twisting the silver wedding band on his left hand. The metal felt cold against his skin, colder than the air in the hallway.
“The highway patrol is still clearing the lane,” Roy said, pausing before he spoke the next words. “But we need to start the preliminary report tonight.”
Gustavo took two quick steps toward the door, his phone already in his hand. “Let’s get it over with, then. My mother is fifty-eight, and her heart can’t take a long delay. I don’t want her hearing this from some neighbor in the morning.”
