“Mariana…” I said, my voice barely steady. “There’s no one else here.”

She smiled again.

But this time—

it wasn’t relief.

It was certainty.

“You used to say that too,” she murmured.

My breath caught.

Because suddenly—

I remembered something I had ignored.

Something small.

Something I had dismissed.

The first time my mother accused her…

Mariana had said the same thing.

“She’s watching me.”

I had thought it was fear.

Or exhaustion.

Or manipulation.

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