He opened the door himself, dressed neatly, his expression calm in a way that felt rehearsed rather than natural. He didn’t ask why they were there.
He already knew.
Because guilt, when it has been buried long enough, learns to recognize the sound of its own footsteps returning.
“Mr. Mateo Fuentes,” the lead officer said, his voice firm but measured, “you are being detained in connection with the murder of Javier Fuentes.”
Mateo smiled faintly.
Not denial.
Not shock.
Just a quiet, tired smile.
“I was wondering how long it would take,” he said.
