“Come on, let’s go down to the beach,” Ludmilla said gently, placing a hand on María José’s shoulder. “The fresh, salty air and a bit of movement will do you good.”
“I feel like I could sleep for days,” the elderly pastry chef mumbled, visibly drained.
“I know. And you will. But we can’t talk freely here anymore.”
“You think they’re listening to us too?”
“You? Most definitely.”
“Then let’s go to your place!”
Ludmilla waved her hand dismissively, clearly reluctant.
“Esteban’s spent way too much time at my place,” she said dryly. “And I wouldn’t put anything past that old rascal. Wouldn’t surprise me if he bugged the whole damn flat while keeping me distracted.”
María José curled her lip. Though she was feeling physically better, the events of the past few days had left her emotionally shattered. A deep sadness and bitter disappointment had taken hold of her. She felt wretched and exposed. And as if that weren’t enough, she was ashamed, too—ashamed that someone had simply drugged her and carted her around like a rag doll.
“So what, from now on, every time we want to talk, we have to leave the complex?” she asked bitterly. “You think that’s normal?”
“It’s not. Of course it’s not,” Ludmilla replied, visibly irritated.
She ran her fingers through her hair, then adjusted her glasses. Her patience was wearing thin. She wanted to talk to María José about what had happened. She needed to know the details of the disappearance. And she had to share the bad news with her old friend. She simply couldn’t keep it to herself: the pastry chef had been exposed—for now, at least, she was the only one. Esteban had seen the stash of stolen goods María José had been hiding in her pantry.
No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t enjoy the walk. The street leading to the beach felt overcrowded and painfully loud. What once seemed lively and vibrant now felt oppressive. The greasy, smoky smell of fried food was downright nauseating. She marched forward mechanically, enduring the pushing crowd, the random brushes of strangers, the deafening noise. Even when her bare feet finally touched the cool water, she couldn’t relax.
She didn’t want to be there.
She wanted her bed. Rest. Sleep. Silence. She craved solitude. She didn’t want to see anyone—let alone talk to them. Exhausted, she clutched her flip-flops to her chest. And the last thing she was ready for was to relive everything again—just to feed Ludmilla’s sparkling-eyed curiosity.
“Well?” Ludmilla prompted. “Come on, what happened?”
María José shrugged without much interest.
“Carlos underestimated Bernard and Noud,” she said flatly, voice devoid of emotion.
“I don’t get it.”
“What’s there not to get?” the pastry chef snapped. “Some mafia-type criminals or who the hell knows, and Carlos just kept pushing them until they’d had enough. And I happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“You don’t think it was about the box…?”
“Oh, come on, not you too with that crap!” María José burst out. “I love how you both think you’re so fucking smart! Like anyone would give a damn about Ted’s toddler-level scribbles!”
Ludmilla fell silent, a bit taken aback.
“And besides,” María José continued, voice tight with anger, “if I was a target, why weren’t you?”
She smacked her palm hard with her flip-flop. The sting of the rubber against her skin was nothing compared to the raw, burning ache she’d been carrying inside for days.