The afternoon sun through the tall windows of St. Jude’s Academy smells of floor wax and old money. Lucía stands in the corridor, her charcoal wool coat buttoned to the chin, watching the black sedans roll up the gravel drive like a funeral procession. Her thumb traces the small scar at her eyebrow—a nervous habit she hasn’t been able to break in six years. She should have left an hour ago, but the sight of the heavy silver crest on the lead car’s grille anchors her to the spot.
Inside the classroom, Mateo is hunched over a drawing of a boat, his dark curls spilling over his forehead. He is so quiet, so unlike the other boys who shout and shove. He has the stillness of a predator, though he doesn't know it yet. Lucía watches the classroom door swing open. Headmaster Vance bows too low, his voice a frantic chirp, and then the air in the hallway simply stops moving.
Tomás Aquino enters the room. He is taller than she remembers, his shoulders broader in the dark suit, his presence a silent command that reorders the very atoms of the classroom. He doesn't look at the teachers or the art on the walls. His warm brown eyes scan the desks until they land on the small boy in the third row. A heavy watch glints on his wrist, and the signet ring on his pinky catches the sun, the silver crest matching the car outside.
Tomás Aquino’s hand slows as it reaches for the boy’s chin, turning Mateo’s face toward the light.
