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She slides a sticky note across the counter. On it is an address two neighborhoods away, written in blue ink. “I didn’t give you that,” she says.
You fold the note into your palm. “No,” you say. “You didn’t.”
After school, you drive past Valentina’s apartment building. You do not park in front. You do not knock. You are careful because you know one wrong move could make things worse. The building is a tired brick complex with broken blinds in half the windows and a rusted playground behind it. A white van with paint splattered across the bumper sits near the curb.
You see him first.
The stepfather stands beside the van smoking a cigarette, his jaw clenched, phone pressed to his ear. You cannot hear every word, but you hear enough. “That teacher keeps sticking his nose in. Yeah. I know how to handle people like him.”
Your hands tighten around the steering wheel.
Then you see Valentina in the second-floor window.
She is only there for three seconds. Her small face appears between the blinds, pale and still. When she sees your car, her eyes widen. Then a hand pulls the blinds shut from inside.
You drive away before the stepfather notices you. Your heart pounds so hard it hurts.
That night, someone throws a brick through your front window.
You are in the hallway when the glass explodes across your living room. You drop to the floor by instinct, your shoulder slamming into the wall. For one second you hear nothing but ringing. Then you see the brick lying on the rug, wrapped in paper.
Your hands shake as you unfold it.
BACK OFF.
Two words. Black marker. No signature needed.
The police officer who comes to your house looks bored until you tell him about Valentina. Then his face changes. He takes photos, bags the note, asks whether you can identify who might have done it. You say you can guess. He says guessing is not evidence, but his voice is gentler than his words.