Kenzie took a shaky breath.
“I came home. I told her I’d wrecked your car. I was crying, and she kept asking what happened.”
“¿Y?”
“Ella dijo que teníamos que pensar”.
Cerré los ojos.
“Think about what?”
“About how to fix it.”
“By blaming me?”
Kenzie no dijo nada.
Esperé.
Finalmente, ella susurró: “Mamá dijo que tenías un buen historial. Que eras mayor. Que el juez podría ser comprensivo por el bebé”.
El mismo razonamiento que había escuchado fuera de la patrulla.
Only now I knew it had been discussed before the police arrived.
I remembered my mother’s calm expression.
Her worried voice.
The way she’d described me as exhausted and emotionally unstable.
She hadn’t improvised all of it.
She had prepared.
Miré hacia el comedor.
My husband had stopped folding clothes.
He was watching me.
I held up one finger to let him know I needed a moment.
