Chapter 32 - THE APARTMENT IN BOSTON
The apartment was terrible.
Renata loved it.
Third floor.
No elevator.
Radiator that sounded like somebody trapped inside it with a wrench.
A kitchen so narrow I could touch both counters at once.
"Absolutely not," I said.
Renata handed the landlord a deposit check.
"Already yes."
"The window lock is weak."
"I'll replace it."
"Front door has one deadbolt."
"Normal people have one deadbolt."
"Normal people make poor security decisions."
She looked at Priya, who had come to help move boxes.
"See?"
Priya nodded solemnly.
"The face."
"What face?"
"I Support Your Independence Unless It Has Windows."
I carried boxes instead of arguing.
That was exhausting.
Renata's research program focused on materials chemistry.
She had chosen it before the assault.
For a while, everyone assumed she would change fields.
She refused.
"I don't want them editing my major too."
The university in Boston offered remote accommodations for the first semester.
She chose to attend in person three days a week.
Her jaw still ached in cold weather.
Crowded hallways sometimes made her freeze.
She worked with a trauma therapist.
Not every recovery moment was inspiring.
Some were irritating.
She forgot appointments.
She snapped at me.
She canceled plans at the last minute.
Once, during move-in, a tray fell in the hallway and she crouched on the floor with both hands over her head before realizing where she was.
I moved toward her.
Priya stopped me gently.
"Ask first."
I hated that she had to remind me.
"Renata, can I come closer?"
She nodded.
I sat on the floor beside her.
Not touching.
Five minutes later, she leaned her shoulder against mine.
Nobody applauded.
A neighbor stepped around us carrying groceries.
Life continued.
That was what healing looked like most days.
Messy and unphotogenic.
I stayed in Boston four nights.
Renata sent me home on the fifth morning.
"You have rearranged my knives twice."
"The large blade should not face outward."
"Go home."
"I can stay one more day."
"Dad."
"Leaving."
I drove back to Queens alone.
Halfway through Connecticut, I realized I had no reason to hurry.
The apartment would be empty.
No warehouse.
No Renata demanding groceries.
No Elena.
No employees.
For the first time, rebuilding my life meant figuring out what remained when I was not protecting someone.
That frightened me more than I expected.
I began volunteering at a reentry program Grace recommended.
Not as a motivational speaker.
I would have been terrible at that.
I helped people understand small-business paperwork.
Insurance.
Invoices.
Payroll.
The boring machinery of legal work.
One man named Curtis asked why I knew so much about shell companies.
"Long story."
"Criminal?"
"Yes."
"Cool."
"No."
"A little cool."
"Still no."
He laughed.
The program director made me sign a rule that I would not recruit anyone into business ventures.
I signed it without offense.
Past reputation is a debt that gets collected in small humiliations.
Mateo wrote from prison.
His letter was six pages.
Four were complaints about food.
One was advice about Javier's new trucking business.
The last page said:
I finally understand why Elena kept copies from both of us.
We thought trust meant access.
Maybe trust means knowing when something isn't yours to hold.
I folded the letter and put it away.
Then I called Javier.
"Your grandfather says you're buying a second truck."
"He needs hobbies."
"Is it true?"
"Maybe."
"Do you want advice?"
"No."
I swallowed every sentence already waiting in my mouth.
"Okay."
Javier laughed.
"That physically hurt you, didn't it?"
"A little."
"Good."
Apparently everyone was enjoying my growth except me.
Renata called that night.
Her first lab day had gone badly.
A male student grabbed a stool behind her without warning.
She panicked.
Dropped a beaker.
Cut one finger.
Then spent twenty minutes crying in a bathroom because she was embarrassed.
"I'm quitting," she said.
I sat on my couch.
"Okay."
Silence.
"That's all?"
"Do you want me to tell you not to?"
"I don't know."
"Do you want to quit tonight or forever?"
She was quiet.
"Tonight."
"Then quit tonight."
"That makes no sense."
"Go home. Eat something. Hate chemistry until morning. Decide tomorrow."
She exhaled.
"Mom would've said something smarter."
"Definitely."
"You're supposed to defend yourself."
"I'm tired."
She laughed once.
The next morning, she went back.
Not triumphantly.
She emailed the lab director first and asked for clearer space rules.
She told the student what happened.
He apologized awkwardly and spent the next week announcing, "Behind you," every time he entered a room.
By Friday it became annoying.
Renata told him to stop.
That was progress too.
Then, one rainy evening, I received a call from a number I did not recognize.
A woman said, "Mr. Salgado, my name is Danielle Price. I was Nora Keene's daughter."
I stood.
"What can I do for you?"
Her voice shook.
"My mother left me something before she died."
"What?"
"A recording."
I closed my eyes.
Another recording.
Another dead person's truth.
"About Elena?"
"About Marcus. And about your wife."
She paused.
"She said I should give it to Renata, not you."
For once, the right answer came quickly.
"Then call Renata."
---
(To be continued)
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