Doctors said I didn’t make it out of the delivery room.

“And the house?”

“Yours. Fully. We transfer the deed the day after the funeral. And Karla can finally move in properly. She’s been waiting in the wings long enough.”

My heart hammered against my ribs, a trapped bird.

Karla Ramírez. Andrés’s executive assistant. The woman who brought me soup when I had the flu. The woman who smiled too wide and laughed too loud at Andrés’s jokes. The woman I had defended when my friends called her “shady.”

“Karla is already asking about redecorating the nursery,” Andrés said, a smile audible in his voice now. “She hates Lucía’s taste. Too… rustic.”

“See?” Teresa purred. “It’s a fresh start. A clean slate. We just wait out the clock. Eighteen more days. We do a small service. Closed casket. We tell her parents it was quick and merciful. No drama.”

“And her parents?”

“I’ve handled them,” Teresa said dismissively. “They are simple people from Guadalajara. They are intimidated by the city, by the hospital. I told them visiting hours are restricted. They won’t know a thing until we send them the ashes.”

Then, a third voice joined them. Soft. Sugary.