Page 24 of Morena
Is this who killed you?
She leaned forward on her toes and kissed his cheek, but the sound was gone, as if she was hiding him. Then the image disappeared.
I rubbed my eyes and pinched my skin, checking twice to see if it had been a dream.
It wasn’t.
This was the twisted reality I had woken into, and even though I hated every second of it, after being with her and after her death, I had never felt more alive.
The day started like yesterday: me waiting for Carlos to open the door. Instead of him, Maria came. She still wore scrubs and looked more exhausted than the first time I’d seen her.
“Hola, Matteo,” she said, and stepped past me to unlock the door. “Carlos asked me to open for you. He had to run some errands before his trip.”
“Gracias,” I said, stepping inside.
She paused halfway on the threshold and stared at the staircase. She didn’t come into the house. She pressed a hand to her arm and scanned the rooms like someone who had been there before and already knew what waited inside. She said nothing. Instead, she lifted her hand and gave a small wave, then started to walk away. Midstep, she turned back.
“Carlos is leaving tomorrow morning,” she said. “He asked if you could stop by at noon.”
“Yeah. I’ll be there.” I nodded and moved into the house like I hadn’t been here four hours earlier.
No one knew I had been using the house to sleep. No one knew I had broken in. No one knew Morena was haunting me.
I went into the kitchen. On the table lay a pair of blue Levi’s and a white top trimmed with tiny daisies, spread out like a set left to dry.
“What is this?” I asked myself, looking around. Then I saw two Polaroids, lying face up beside the clothes. In one, I was standing with the jeans in my hands behind the building. My own face looked guilty and scared.
Someone had seen me that night. Someone had seen me take her clothes. Someone knew I was staying here.
I turned the Polaroid over. Written on the back, in a handwriting I didn’t recognize:I know what happened in July 1984.
If they knew, why hadn’t they told the police? Or did they want something from me? Who was watching me? I stood there, clutching the denim and the top until the fabric creased in my fingers.
Morena had died that year. Whoever left the note might know the killer.
1. Handsome
2. You missed me.
3. Good
4. Queen of the night
5. I am not the queen of the night, handsome.
6. More like your nightmare.
7. sad eyes
VII.
Thatmorning,beforeIwent to Carlos, I kept my hands busy. Paintbrush dragging over cracked walls, hinges squealing as I swapped old doors with new ones, glass splintering under my grip as I replaced the broken window from last night.
While I worked, I found a loose board tucked into the floor. I opened it and slid her clothes inside with the polaroids and a note. If something happened, if anything happened, I would know where to look. But I had been careless, stupid even. I had left her journal somewhere in the house, and I didn’t remember where. And that mistake haunted me.
Later, back at Carlos’ place, I sat in silence at the kitchen table, staring at the exact spot his mother would stare. I didn’t move. I didn’t speak. My mind circled itself.Did she drown in her thoughts like this, too? Or was it just me, trapped inside the noise of my own head?
Carlos broke the silence with a loud drop of papers, medical reports, and prescriptions at the table. He explained his mother’s diagnosis, how Maria took care of her, how sometimeshis mother refused her pills, and he had to hold her down just to make her swallow.
