You let it ring once. Twice. Three times.
Then you answered.
“Hey,” he said, casual, almost cheerful. “How are you doing?”
For one surreal second you almost admired the performance.
“You tell me,” you said.
Silence.
Then: “What does that mean?”
You stood by the hotel window looking at planes descend in the distance, silver and slow against the darkening sky.
“It means the police took our mattress.”
Another silence, smaller this time but much louder.
“Ana,” he said carefully, “what did you do?”
What did you do.
Not what did you find.
Not are you okay.
Not why are the police in my house.
