Víctor still didn’t know that there was no longer a house to hand over.
When he finally received authorization to leave, he asked for Ana to come and get him.
The nurse who took the message returned a few minutes later.
“Your wife isn’t coming.”
Víctor frowned.
“Did you speak to her?”
“A message was left at the number on file.”
There was no further explanation.
Víctor called again.
Ana let the phone ring until it stopped.
Then he did what was still easier for him than accepting rejection: he called Rita.
She arrived shortly after.
Víctor was carrying a bag with his belongings, some medical documents, and Ana’s ring, tucked into an inside pocket of his jacket.
He spoke little during the drive.
Rita, on the other hand, asked twice if Ana had shown any signs of wanting to dispute the property.
“I’ll sort that out later,” Víctor said.
“You told me it was done.”
“I said I was going to do it.”
Rita didn’t like the distinction.
Víctor rested his head against the seat.
He still believed the biggest problem awaiting him was an offended wife.
As they approached the street, he began to notice activity in front of the property.
First, he saw a blackened section.
Then he made out the window frames, stripped of glass.
Next came the dark gap where part of the second floor had once been.
Víctor asked for the car to be stopped.
Rita stopped talking.
For several seconds, neither of them opened their door.
The three-story house Víctor had described with such confidence from his hospital bed had been reduced to a burnt, sodden structure, partially cordoned off.
The garden was littered with charred debris.
One wall was stained with smoke.
The garage was still there, but it no longer looked like the entrance to the property Víctor had used as a bargaining chip to buy time with Rita.
“What happened?” she asked.
Víctor didn’t answer.
He got out with difficulty. Every step reminded him that he was barely recovering from a transplant, yet he kept moving forward until Teresa spotted him from her house.
The woman crossed the street.
“Don Víctor.”
“Where is Ana?”
He didn’t even ask about the fire first.
Teresa noticed.
“I don’t know where she’s living.”
“Was she here when this started?”
It took Teresa barely a second to grasp the accusation hidden in the question.
“Ana left beforehand.”
Víctor looked up.
“Are you sure?”
“I saw her with her suitcase.”
Teresa pointed toward the avenue.
“She was waiting for the bus on the other side. Then we saw the glow and started shouting.”
Rita took a few steps closer.
“So, did she burn it down herself?”
Teresa looked at her, not knowing who she was.
“I’m just telling you what I saw.”
That was enough to shatter the initial explanation Víctor had begun to construct in his mind.
If Ana had started the fire, Teresa had just placed her outside the property before the flames became visible.
Even so, Víctor needed someone to blame.
He needed someone to have done this to him, because accepting that his life had fallen into disarray without asking his permission was far harder.
“She knew something,” he murmured.
Rita heard him.
“What do you mean?”
“She took her things beforehand.”
Teresa interjected.
“She took a suitcase.”
“Exactly.”
“A suitcase, Don Víctor. Her furniture was still inside.”
Víctor fell silent.
Teresa had seen Ana leave carrying photographs, papers, and personal items, but she had also seen the rooms still full.
No one deliberately trying to save everything they owned would have left behind decades of belongings.
Rita turned her gaze back to the house.
Her next question came too quickly.
