—Stop! You’re going to break your arm again!
Mateo was trying to push a feather under the edge of the plaster cast. He scratched desperately, as if there were fire underneath. The skin around the bandage was irritated and stained, but Carlos didn’t want to look too closely. He no longer knew what to believe.
Lorena, his wife, appeared leaning against the doorframe. She wore an elegant robe, her hair was perfect, her face cold.
“I told you, Carlos,” she murmured. “This isn’t pain. It’s manipulation. Ever since you married me, Mateo can’t stand sharing you.”
“Lies!” shouted the boy. “You know what you did!”
Lorena opened her eyes with feigned sadness.
—See? Now he’s accusing me. That’s paranoia. He needs psychiatric help before he really hurts himself.
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