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You almost cannot keep walking.
Arturo feels it and squeezes your hand.
Lucía walks ahead with Esteban.
You hear her whisper something.
You cannot make it out.
But the recorder might.
The second overlook has no railing.
Just a flat shelf of stone opening toward the valley. Wind pushes against your coat. Far below, rocks and trees blur together.
Lucía spreads a blanket near the edge.
Too close.
You stay back.
She notices.
“Mom, come look at the view.”
“I can see it from here.”
“Don’t be scared.”
Arturo’s voice is quiet. “Elena doesn’t like edges.”
Lucía turns toward him.
Something cold passes through her face.
“Funny,” she says. “Diego didn’t either.”
The world stops.
Arturo goes rigid.
You slowly turn toward her.
“What did you say?”
Lucía smiles.
Not brightly now.
Not like a daughter.
Like someone tired of pretending.
“I said Diego didn’t like edges either.”
Esteban looks away.
Your heart begins to pound.
Arturo whispers, “Lucía.”
She laughs softly.
“Oh, Dad. You look like you’ve seen a ghost. But then again, you did.”
The wind cuts through the trees.
Your recorder is on.
Arturo’s recorder is on.
You pray the sound is clear.
Lucía steps closer.
“For twenty years, you both looked at me like I was fragile. Poor Lucía. Quiet Lucía. Grieving Lucía. But you knew, didn’t you, Dad?”
His face crumples.
“Yes.”
There it is.
The first truth spoken aloud at the edge of the place where your son died.
Lucía’s eyes glitter.
“And you kept quiet.”
“I should have gone to the police.”
“You should have,” she says. “But you didn’t because you loved me more than justice.”
You take a breath.
“No,” you say. “He feared losing another child more than he loved the truth.”
Lucía’s eyes snap to you.
For the first time, she looks truly angry.
“You always do that.”
“What?”
“Make him sound weak when you were the one who made us all weak. Saint Elena. Teacher Elena. Mother of the year. You loved Diego more because he was easy. Loud. Smiling. Everyone’s hero.”
Your throat tightens.
“That is not true.”
“It is.”
She steps closer.
“Diego got the praise. Diego got the attention. Diego was going to inherit the workshop, the house, the land. And I was supposed to be grateful for scraps because I was quiet.”
Arturo shakes his head.
“You were my daughter. I would have given you anything.”
“You gave me guilt.”
“You killed your brother.”
Her face twists.
For a second, you see the girl she once was.
Then she disappears.
“He was going to ruin me,” Lucía snaps. “He found bank transfers. He was going to tell you I borrowed money. Borrowed. From my own family.”
“You stole from us,” you say.
She glares at you.
“I was owed.”
There it is.
The rot at the center.
Not need.
Not desperation.
Entitlement.
Esteban finally speaks.
“Lucía, enough.”
She turns on him. “No. They need to understand.”
He looks nervous now.
Good.
Maybe he did not know everything.
Or maybe he knew enough and is finally realizing murder sounds different when spoken in daylight.
Lucía points toward Arturo.
“He saw. He saw Diego fall. And he still chose me.”
Arturo’s tears spill silently.
“I chose wrong.”
Her face changes.
“What?”
He lifts his head.
“I chose wrong. I thought hiding the truth would save you. It didn’t. It made you worse.”
Lucía stares at him.
The wind rises.
Your phone buzzes once.
Fifteen-minute check-in.
You do not move.
Lucía hears it.