He kissed me on the forehead and came out again, saying he was going to get a coffee. As soon as the door closed, I grabbed the landline with trembling fingers and dialed again.

He took the unlabeled bottle from his apron and set it down in front of him.

“He told us this.

The color went out completely.

The room fell silent.

Even the monitor seemed to beat louder.

Javier took a step back.

Then another.

“They don’t know what they’re seeing.

Andrea crossed her arms.

“Enough to call toxicology, the police, and medical advice if necessary.”

I looked at him from the bed, still weak, but no longer broken.

“I heard you in the hallway,” I said.

The phrase pierced him. I saw it. As if a wall had given way inside him.

His face changed. No to repentance. Never. To the hatred discovered.

“Then you must have died last night,” he whispered.

Maria uttered an insult between her teeth. Andrea took a step forward. The notary closed his portfolio with a dry click.

And I, who had spent the last thirty-six hours fearing that I would become my own funeral, felt something fierce and cold rise within me.

“No,” I answered. The one who got the wrong burial was you.

Javier looked towards the door, calculating exit, versions, lies. He was not yet defeated. Just cornered.

And just as a nurse appeared in the doorway saying that officers were on their way to talk to me, Maria leaned over by my bed and murmured, with a calmness that made my skin crawl:

“Madam… the house is already fixed. But there’s one more thing you need to know before he tries to run.

He discreetly raised my cell phone, the same one Javier had taken from me, and showed me the screen.

There was an open chat with a contact saved as “Vero ❤️”.

The last message, sent by Javier at 3:12 in the morning, read:

“If tomorrow he signs, by night we will be free. If you don’t sign… we will also have to advance the old woman.”