"Anything else?"
I remembered Javier standing in our kitchen six months earlier, holding my business folder.
He'd told me that without him, nobody would take my company seriously.
I remembered the night he'd hidden my car keys because I'd refused to attend one of his mother's dinners.
And I remembered apologizing afterward.
For making him angry.
"Yes," I whispered.
The inspector looked up.
"Clara, you can report all of this. We can also explain the protective measures available and help you contact specialist support."
I nodded, but my eyes had filled.
I wasn't crying because I wanted Javier back.
I was crying because someone had finally described my life without pretending it was normal.
A soft knock interrupted us.
Andrés entered carrying a small paper bag.
"The waiter found this near your chair," he said.
Inside was my scarf, which had slipped beneath the table.
And a folded envelope.
