Dormir con el diablo

Chapter One

The body lay in perfect repose on the Victorian fainting couch, looking more like a sleeping beauty than a victim. Detective Sarah Chen had seen enough death in her ten years with the Metropolitan Police's Special Cases Unit to know that natural death never looked this peaceful. Something was very, very wrong.

        'No signs of struggle, no marks on the body, and yet...' She leaned closer, studying the victim's face. Charlotte Mills, aged 28, was found by her roommate this morning, apparently having passed away in her sleep. Her expression was serene, almost blissful, but her eyes - those were what caught Sarah's attention. Behind the closed lids, her eyes were moving rapidly, as if still deep in REM sleep.

        "You see it too, don't you?" The voice came from behind her, rich and cultured with a slight Irish lilt. "She's still dreaming."

        Sarah turned to find a tall man in an impeccably tailored charcoal suit standing in the doorway. He hadn't been there a moment ago, she was certain of it. His dark hair was streaked with silver at the temples, and his eyes were an unusual shade of amber that seemed to shift color in the light.

        "This is a closed crime scene," she said firmly, her hand instinctively moving toward her weapon. "How did you get in here?"

        He smiled, but it didn't reach those strange eyes. "Dr. Marcus Thorne," he said, pulling out a card that somehow both looked official and seemed to shimmer slightly. "I'm a consulting specialist with the Department's new Oneiric Phenomena Division."

        "The what division?" Sarah frowned, taking the card. The moment her fingers touched it, she felt a slight electric tingle, and the letters seemed to rearrange themselves before her eyes.

        "Dreams, Detective Chen. We investigate crimes involving dreams." He moved into the room with fluid grace, his attention fixed on the victim. "And this is the third one this month."

        Sarah's mind raced. There had been two other deaths recently - both young women, both found peacefully dead in their sleep. She'd seen the reports but hadn't made the connection until now. "How do you know about those cases?"

        "Because I've been tracking the killer for quite some time." Thorne knelt beside the body, his eyes now definitely more gold than amber. "He's what we call a Dream Collector - someone who has learned to enter and steal dreams. But this one has developed a taste for more than just dreams. He's taking souls."

        Under normal circumstances, Sarah would have dismissed such talk as nonsense. But there was something about the scene, about the victim's still-moving eyes, about Thorne himself, that made the impossible seem suddenly plausible.

        "If you're tracking him," she said carefully, "why haven't you caught him?"

        Thorne's expression darkened. "Because he only appears in dreams. The physical world is my domain, but his... his is the realm of sleep. To catch him, we need someone who can walk between both worlds." He turned those unsettling eyes on her. "Someone like you."

        "Me?" Sarah almost laughed, but the sound died in her throat as memories she'd long suppressed began to surface. The dreams that felt too real, the nights she'd awakened to find objects moved in her room, the way she sometimes knew things she couldn't possibly know...

        "You've always known you were different, haven't you, Detective?" Thorne's voice was gentle now. "The dreams that come true, the hunches that turn out to be right, the way you can sometimes see how people died just by touching objects they owned..."

        Sarah took an involuntary step back. "How do you know about that?"

        "Because I've been looking for someone like you. A Natural - someone born with the ability to cross the threshold between waking and dreaming." He gestured to the victim. "Charlotte here won't be his last. There will be others, and their souls will remain trapped in an eternal dream unless we stop him."

        Just then, the victim's hand twitched, her fingers moving as if writing something. Sarah moved closer, watching as invisible words were traced in the air. Thorne pulled out what looked like an antique monocle and held it up. Through its lens, golden letters shimmered in the air where Charlotte's fingers moved.

        "Help me," Thorne read aloud. "He's coming for the others."

        Sarah felt a chill run down her spine. She looked at the victim's peaceful face, at those restlessly moving eyes, and made a decision that would change her life forever.

        "Tell me what I need to do."

        Thorne's smile was grim. "First, you need to learn to control your abilities. Then..." he held up the monocle, through which Sarah could now see strange symbols glowing all around the room, "you need to learn to hunt in dreams."

        Outside the Victorian townhouse, storm clouds gathered, and Sarah Chen, homicide detective and newly discovered dream walker, took her first step into a world where nightmares were real, and death was just another kind of sleep.

Chapter Two

The basement of the Natural History Museum was the last place Sarah expected to find the headquarters of a secret dream investigation unit. Yet here she was, following Thorne through a maze of storage rooms filled with artifacts that seemed to pulse with their own inner light.

        "The mundane world only sees what it expects to see," Thorne explained, using an ornate key to unlock a heavy wooden door marked 'Private Collection.' "To them, this is just museum storage. To us, it's the largest collection of dream artifacts in the Western Hemisphere."

        The room beyond defied physics. It stretched impossibly far, filled with glass cases containing everything from ancient masks to modern-looking devices. Floating orbs of soft light illuminated collections of bottled dreams - actual dreams, swirling like liquid mercury behind glass.

        "Your badge, Detective," Thorne held out his hand. Sarah hesitated before handing over her police credentials. He placed it on a strange device that looked like a Victorian music box crossed with a computer. When he returned the badge, it felt different - heavier, somehow more real.

        "Now you'll be able to access both worlds officially," he said. "Look at it again."

        The badge had changed. Alongside her regular police credentials, new text had appeared: 'Special Inspector, Oneiric Investigations Division.' The letters seemed to shift between English and something older, something that made her eyes water if she looked too long.

        "Before we can hunt the Dream Collector, you need to understand what you're dealing with." Thorne led her to a case containing what looked like a normal pillow. "Touch it."

        Sarah reached out hesitantly. The moment her fingers made contact, the world tilted. She was suddenly standing in someone else's dream - a sunny beach, but the sky was green and the sand whispered secrets. She jerked her hand back, gasping.

        "Good," Thorne nodded approvingly. "Most people can't pull back from their first dream artifact. You have natural barriers."

        "What was that?" Sarah's heart was racing.

        "A dream fragment from 1892. A young girl's last dream before the influenza took her." His voice softened. "We preserve them here. Dreams carry memories, emotions, sometimes even pieces of souls."

        "And this Dream Collector... he takes entire souls?" Sarah remembered Charlotte Mills' peaceful face and restless eyes.

        "He traps them in eternal dreams, feeding off their essence." Thorne moved to another case, this one containing what looked like a cracked mirror. "Each victim becomes part of his collection, their souls powering his abilities, letting him dreamwalk without natural talent like yours."

        Suddenly, the cracked mirror began to frost over. In its surface, Sarah saw Charlotte Mills' face, mouth open in a silent scream. Then another face appeared - another victim, she presumed - and another.

        "He's showing off," Thorne growled. "He knows we're investigating."

        The temperature in the room dropped dramatically. Frost patterns spread from the mirror to nearby cases, and Sarah heard what sounded like distant laughter.

        "Well, well," a voice echoed through the room, seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere. "A new player in the game. And such interesting dreams you have, Detective Chen."

        Sarah felt something brush against her mind, like cold fingers trying to pry open a door. Instinctively, she slammed her mental barriers shut. The presence withdrew, but not before leaving behind an impression of amusement.

        "He's already caught your scent," Thorne said grimly. He pulled out a small velvet bag and removed what looked like a dreamcatcher made of silver wire and black pearls. "Wear this when you sleep. It won't keep him out entirely, but it'll stop him from stealing your dreams while you're still learning to defend yourself."

        As Sarah took the dreamcatcher, her fingers brushed Thorne's, and suddenly she was hit with a flash of his dreams - centuries of memories, battles fought in realms of sleep, and a profound sense of loss that made her gasp.

        Thorne withdrew his hand quickly. "Your abilities are stronger than I thought. We'll need to work on your control."

        "What are you?" Sarah asked directly. "You're not just some government consultant, are you?"

        Before he could answer, an alarm began to sound throughout the facility. One of the dream bottles had turned black, its contents writhing like smoke.

        "He's hunting again," Thorne said, already moving toward the exit. "Someone in the city has just entered their last dream. Are you ready for your first real case, Detective?"

        Sarah touched her new badge, feeling its power hum under her fingers. "Do we have time to save them?"

        "If we're lucky, we might catch him in the act. But remember - in dreams, he's incredibly powerful. One wrong move and you could lose your soul."

        As they rushed from the dream archive, Sarah caught one last glimpse of the cracked mirror. In its surface, she saw her own reflection smile back at her with eyes that weren't quite her own.

        The hunt was about to begin.

Chapter Two

The basement of the Natural History Museum was the last place Sarah expected to find the headquarters of a secret dream investigation unit. Yet here she was, following Thorne through a maze of storage rooms filled with artifacts that seemed to pulse with their own inner light.

        "The mundane world only sees what it expects to see," Thorne explained, using an ornate key to unlock a heavy wooden door marked 'Private Collection.' "To them, this is just museum storage. To us, it's the largest collection of dream artifacts in the Western Hemisphere."

        The room beyond defied physics. It stretched impossibly far, filled with glass cases containing everything from ancient masks to modern-looking devices. Floating orbs of soft light illuminated collections of bottled dreams - actual dreams, swirling like liquid mercury behind glass.

        "Your badge, Detective," Thorne held out his hand. Sarah hesitated before handing over her police credentials. He placed it on a strange device that looked like a Victorian music box crossed with a computer. When he returned the badge, it felt different - heavier, somehow more real.

        "Now you'll be able to access both worlds officially," he said. "Look at it again."

        The badge had changed. Alongside her regular police credentials, new text had appeared: 'Special Inspector, Oneiric Investigations Division.' The letters seemed to shift between English and something older, something that made her eyes water if she looked too long.

        "Before we can hunt the Dream Collector, you need to understand what you're dealing with." Thorne led her to a case containing what looked like a normal pillow. "Touch it."

        Sarah reached out hesitantly. The moment her fingers made contact, the world tilted. She was suddenly standing in someone else's dream - a sunny beach, but the sky was green and the sand whispered secrets. She jerked her hand back, gasping.

        "Good," Thorne nodded approvingly. "Most people can't pull back from their first dream artifact. You have natural barriers."

        "What was that?" Sarah's heart was racing.

        "A dream fragment from 1892. A young girl's last dream before the influenza took her." His voice softened. "We preserve them here. Dreams carry memories, emotions, sometimes even pieces of souls."

        "And this Dream Collector... he takes entire souls?" Sarah remembered Charlotte Mills' peaceful face and restless eyes.

        "He traps them in eternal dreams, feeding off their essence." Thorne moved to another case, this one containing what looked like a cracked mirror. "Each victim becomes part of his collection, their souls powering his abilities, letting him dreamwalk without natural talent like yours."

        Suddenly, the cracked mirror began to frost over. In its surface, Sarah saw Charlotte Mills' face, mouth open in a silent scream. Then another face appeared - another victim, she presumed - and another.

        "He's showing off," Thorne growled. "He knows we're investigating."

        The temperature in the room dropped dramatically. Frost patterns spread from the mirror to nearby cases, and Sarah heard what sounded like distant laughter.

        "Well, well," a voice echoed through the room, seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere. "A new player in the game. And such interesting dreams you have, Detective Chen."

        Sarah felt something brush against her mind, like cold fingers trying to pry open a door. Instinctively, she slammed her mental barriers shut. The presence withdrew, but not before leaving behind an impression of amusement.

        "He's already caught your scent," Thorne said grimly. He pulled out a small velvet bag and removed what looked like a dreamcatcher made of silver wire and black pearls. "Wear this when you sleep. It won't keep him out entirely, but it'll stop him from stealing your dreams while you're still learning to defend yourself."

        As Sarah took the dreamcatcher, her fingers brushed Thorne's, and suddenly she was hit with a flash of his dreams - centuries of memories, battles fought in realms of sleep, and a profound sense of loss that made her gasp.

        Thorne withdrew his hand quickly. "Your abilities are stronger than I thought. We'll need to work on your control."

        "What are you?" Sarah asked directly. "You're not just some government consultant, are you?"

        Before he could answer, an alarm began to sound throughout the facility. One of the dream bottles had turned black, its contents writhing like smoke.

        "He's hunting again," Thorne said, already moving toward the exit. "Someone in the city has just entered their last dream. Are you ready for your first real case, Detective?"

        Sarah touched her new badge, feeling its power hum under her fingers. "Do we have time to save them?"

        "If we're lucky, we might catch him in the act. But remember - in dreams, he's incredibly powerful. One wrong move and you could lose your soul."

        As they rushed from the dream archive, Sarah caught one last glimpse of the cracked mirror. In its surface, she saw her own reflection smile back at her with eyes that weren't quite her own.

        The hunt was about to begin.

Chapter Three

They arrived at St. Bartholomew's Hospital just as the emergency lights began to flash. Sarah followed Thorne through corridors that seemed to blur at the edges of her vision, her new badge somehow clearing their path without ever being shown.

        "Room 307," Thorne said, his voice tight with urgency. "Young male, admitted for minor surgery, slipped into an unusual coma during recovery."

        The patient, David Parker, age 23, lay perfectly still on his hospital bed, his eyes moving rapidly beneath closed lids. Just like Charlotte Mills. But this time, something was different - the air around him rippled like heat waves over hot asphalt.

        "He's still in the process of taking him," Thorne said, pulling out what looked like an antique pocket watch. "We can follow if we're quick. Are you ready for your first dream dive?"

        Sarah's heart pounded. "What do I need to do?"

        "Take my hand. Focus on the patient. Let your consciousness slip between the moments of reality." Thorne's eyes began to glow that strange amber color. "And whatever you see in there, remember - dream logic is real logic in that world."

        Sarah grasped Thorne's hand and looked at David Parker. The world tilted, twisted, and suddenly...

        They were standing in a hospital corridor that wasn't quite right. The walls breathed slowly, the floor was made of flowing water that somehow supported their weight, and the ceiling was a swirling mass of constellation maps.

        "His dreamscape," Thorne explained, his voice echoing strangely. "Every dreamer creates their own reality. Look."

        Down the impossible corridor, a figure in a doctor's coat was leading David Parker by the hand. But the 'doctor' was wrong - his shadow moved independently, reaching out with grasping tendrils towards other dreams that floated past like soap bubbles.

        "The Dream Collector," Sarah whispered.

        As if hearing his name, the figure turned. Sarah's breath caught. His face was a beautiful mask of shifting features, never settling on one form, but his eyes... his eyes were endless pits of swirling dreams.

        "Ah, the new dreamer," his voice was like silk over broken glass. "And my old friend Marcus. Still trying to police the dream worlds?"

        Thorne stepped forward, and Sarah noticed his appearance had changed in the dream. His suit was now made of living shadows, and wings of dark light stretched from his shoulders. "Let him go, Collector. You've taken enough souls."

        The Collector laughed, the sound causing the hospital walls to crack, leaking golden dream-light. "Taken? Oh, Marcus, you still don't understand. They give themselves to me. Show her, David."

        The young man turned, and Sarah saw his eyes were glassy with bliss. "It's beautiful here," he said dreamily. "All my pain is gone. All my fears. He takes them all away."

        "By taking everything you are," Sarah found herself saying. She took a step forward, instinctively reaching for her police badge. In the dream, it transformed into a shield of pure light. "David, this isn't real healing. It's theft."

        The Collector's face rippled with anger. "You dare interrupt my collection?" The corridor began to twist, reality bending around them. "Let me show you what happens to those who interfere with my work."

        Suddenly, the floor beneath Sarah liquefied completely. She started to sink, but instead of water, she was drowning in dreams - thousands of them, each containing a fragment of someone's stolen soul. She saw Charlotte Mills dancing endlessly in a ballroom of mirrors, saw other victims trapped in perfect moments that had become eternal prisons.

        "Sarah!" Thorne's voice cut through the chaos. "Remember - dream logic! Make your own rules!"

        Dream logic. Sarah closed her eyes, focusing on her years of police work, of protecting people, of solving puzzles. When she opened them, her badge-shield had transformed into a sword of pure thought.

        With a cry, she slashed through the dream-flood. Reality reasserted itself - or at least, this dream's version of reality. She stood on solid ground again, facing the Collector.

        "Impressive," he purred, but she sensed uncertainty in his voice. "You're stronger than the usual dreamers Marcus recruits. Perhaps we could make a deal..."

        "No deals," Sarah said firmly. She could feel her power growing, reshaping the dream around them. "David, look at what he really is. Look with your heart, not your fears."

        For a moment, David's eyes cleared. The Collector's beautiful mask slipped, revealing something ancient and hungry beneath. David screamed, pulling away from the creature's grasp.

        The Collector snarled, his form shifting into something monstrous. "If I can't have him willingly..." Shadows exploded from his body, reaching for David.

        What happened next seemed to unfold in slow motion. Thorne spread his dark wings, shielding David. Sarah's sword of thought became a net of light, trapping some of the shadows. But the Collector himself simply... stepped sideways, vanishing into a door that appeared in the air.

        "Sweet dreams, detectives," his voice lingered behind. "We'll meet again soon. After all, Sarah, your dreams are particularly... appetizing."

        The dreamscape began to dissolve. Sarah felt Thorne grab her arm, pulling her back through layers of reality. Then...

        They were standing in the hospital room again. David Parker was awake, gasping, but alive and whole. A nurse was rushing in, responding to his sudden revival.

        "We saved one," Thorne said quietly. "But he'll be angry now. And he'll come for you."

        Sarah touched her badge, still feeling echoes of its dream-power. "Good," she said grimly. "Because I have some questions for him about Charlotte Mills. And about what you really are, Marcus Thorne."

        Thorne's expression was unreadable. "All in time, Detective. For now, you need to rest. Tomorrow, your real training begins."

        As they left the hospital, Sarah could have sworn she saw her shadow move independently, reaching for dreams that floated just beyond the edge of sight. The world would never look quite the same again.

Chapter Four

Sarah's apartment looked different when she returned that night. The shadows seemed deeper, more alive, and ordinary objects cast reflections that didn't quite match reality. The dreamcatcher Thorne had given her pulsed softly in her pocket, responding to the changed way she now saw the world.

        She was exhausted but afraid to sleep. The Collector's words echoed in her mind: 'Your dreams are particularly appetizing.' Instead, she spread her case files across the coffee table - photographs of Charlotte Mills, the other victims, and now David Parker's medical records.

        A soft chime from her badge interrupted her concentration. The metal had grown warm, and when she touched it, words appeared in that strange shifting script: 'Archive. Now. Emergency.'

        The museum was different at night. Sarah's new badge led her through doors that hadn't existed during her first visit, down stairs that seemed to descend far deeper than the building's foundation should allow. She found Thorne in a circular room she hadn't seen before, surrounded by floating screens of light that showed various dreamscapes.

        "We have a problem," he said without preamble. "The Collector's attack pattern has changed. Look."

        The screens shifted, showing a map of the city overlaid with points of light. "Each light is a dreamer," Thorne explained. "The blue ones are normal dreams. The red..." He gestured, and several dots pulsed an angry crimson. "Those are nightmares being actively shaped by outside forces."

        "He's attacking multiple targets at once?"

        "No." Thorne's expression was grim. "He's leaving traps. Dream-snares. Anyone who falls asleep in these areas risks being pulled into a constructed nightmare. He's trying to overwhelm our ability to respond."

        Sarah studied the pattern of red dots. "They're forming a shape... a symbol?"

        "A summoning circle." A new voice joined them. Sarah turned to see an elderly woman emerging from what appeared to be a door made of starlight. Her eyes were milk-white, but she moved with absolute certainty.

        "Sarah, meet Dr. Eleanor Price, the Archive's keeper," Thorne said. "And yes, she's blind in the waking world, but in dreams..."

        "I see everything," Eleanor finished. Her unseeing eyes fixed on Sarah with uncomfortable accuracy. "Including what our friend the Collector is truly planning. He's not just taking souls anymore. He's building toward something larger."

        She gestured, and the room transformed around them. They were suddenly standing in what looked like a vast library, but the books were made of dreams, their pages flowing like liquid memory.

        "Every dream ever archived is stored here," Eleanor explained. "Including the oldest nightmares of humanity. The Collector isn't just a thief - he's trying to wake something that should stay sleeping. Something we locked away centuries ago."

        She pulled a book from the shelf, and its pages burst open, projecting a scene of ancient horror - a time when the boundary between dreams and reality was thinner, when nightmares could walk in daylight.

        "The Last Nightmare," Thorne said softly. "We thought it was safely contained, but if he completes that summoning circle..."

        A sudden tremor ran through the Archive. One of the red dots on the map had grown larger, pulsing violently.

        "He's starting," Eleanor's voice was urgent. "Sarah, you need to see something before you face this." She pressed her fingers to Sarah's forehead, and suddenly...

        She was in a memory. A younger Thorne stood with a woman who looked remarkably like Sarah herself, facing down a shadow that threatened to devour the world. The woman - another dream detective? - sacrificed herself to help seal away the nightmare.

        "Your mother," Eleanor's voice echoed in her mind. "She was one of us. Her sacrifice helped lock away the Last Nightmare, but the Collector has never stopped trying to free it. And now he's found you - her daughter, with her power."

        The vision ended abruptly as another tremor shook the Archive. More red dots were pulsing on the map.

        "Why didn't you tell me?" Sarah demanded, turning to Thorne.

        "Because I promised her I'd keep you away from this life," he replied, pain evident in his voice. "But now the Collector knows who you are, and we're running out of time."

        "The summoning circle will be complete at the next new moon," Eleanor added. "Three days from now. If the Last Nightmare wakes..."

        "Then we stop him before that happens," Sarah said firmly, though her mind was reeling from the revelations. "How do we break these dream-snares?"

        "It's dangerous," Thorne warned. "Each one is a trap designed specifically for dream walkers. If you're caught..."

        "Then you'll just have to watch my back," Sarah said. She touched her badge, feeling its power respond. "Where do we start?"

        Eleanor smiled, her blind eyes somehow twinkling. "First, you need to understand what you truly inherited from your mother. It's time you learned about the true history of the dream walkers - and why the Collector fears your bloodline above all others."

        As if in response to Eleanor's words, the books around them began to glow, their pages rustling with the weight of secrets about to be revealed. In the map above, the red dots pulsed like a countdown to catastrophe, and Sarah realized she had less than three days to master powers she never knew she had.

        The true game was about to begin.

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Meredith
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Anoche dejé a mi marido. Hay algo muy bonito en el tiempo pasado: dejar. Él sigue en California. Mientras tanto, estoy de pie en una gasolinera en Middle-of-Nowhere, Texas. No tengo dinero, ni coche. Empeñé una llamativa pulsera de tenis de diamantes para comprar un billete de avión a San Antonio, y para su crédito, la pulsera también pagó el taxi que está repostando en el surtidor de fuera. Sin embargo, se me ha acabado el dinero en efectivo y me ruge el estómago.
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No planeé muy bien mi partida. De hecho, no la planeé en absoluto. Anoche, estaba acostada en mi lado de la cama, completamente despierta. Andrew roncaba con fuerza a mi lado, tan seguro como siempre de que el sol saldría por la mañana como siempre. Una hora antes, había llegado tarde de una cena de trabajo con el carmín manchado en la mejilla. Su cuello blanco, en cambio, estaba impoluto.
Tenía un millón de razones para dejarlo -suficientes para llenar todo el pasillo de bocadillos de la gasolinera, suficientes para que cualquier consejero matrimonial diera un gran anticipo por una casa de vacaciones-, pero anoche sólo necesitaba una. Me fui, y eso es todo lo que importa. Hay medio país entre él y yo, y lo único de lo que tengo que preocuparme ahora es de poner el siguiente pie en el camino... bueno, eso y el hecho de que no tengo ningún sitio al que ir, ni dinero, ni trabajo, ni comida. También me estoy quedando rápidamente sin accesorios vendibles, pero no nos entretengamos con los detalles.
Miro fijamente una lata de cacahuetes en la estantería. Ayer, podría haber golpeado mi AMEX negra sobre la caja y arrastrar el brazo por la estantería, metiendo comida en la cesta como un concursante de Supermarket Sweep. Ahora, no puedo permitirme cacahuetes; Andrew canceló mis tarjetas en cuanto se dio cuenta de que me había ido.
So*nBr,ízo&,i Iim$agViNnxandpoN ,eUl pcabUreRok qufeT dsebciwó dNeZ Btender ZcIuFaPnxdoV sBeY diLo cuenta dUep la& vQeVrdadQ. jNBunca Xpe,nQsóQ qumeD Lloé harNíaf.Z ,EmrIa paHrtSe dQe fsu adiDsXcuérOsco: V¿AQnuiéUn paggax l_as fqaFcturaPsÉ?M f¿Qu.ién gtVe Hcofm'p,ra la ro(paM? No e_rCeTsX RnfadaN si,n !míQ, )Mereditmh,x Zsin Hvalonrp.Y
En un sentido puramente financiero, tenía razón en lo de "sin valor". Mi valor neto actualmente consiste en un par de dólares y algo de calderilla. Sin embargo, se equivocó en la otra parte. Le dejé, y lo hice en mitad de la noche sin nada más que la ropa que llevaba puesta. Es el traje que había preparado para un almuerzo benéfico, un evento que debe estar teniendo lugar en este mismo momento sin mí. El conjunto es una blusa blanca con volantes, un cinturón de Hermes y unos vaqueros de diseño.
Mi gran escapada fue víctima de mi efímera valentía. Sabía que si me sentaba a planearlo todo, perdería los nervios. Necesitaba no tener tiempo para echarme atrás, no tener dudas. Ahora me doy cuenta de que debería haber sido un poco más práctica. Tendría que haberme metido en la maleta algún tentempié para la escapada, agua, tal vez unas zapatillas de deporte.
Pero, sinceramente, nunca pensé que estaría aquí. De todos los lugares a los que podría haber corrido, Texas parecía ser el más lógico por mi hermana, bueno, técnicamente es mi hermanastra. Recuerdo la conversación telefónica que mantuve con ella la noche anterior mientras estaba en el aeropuerto intentando coger un vuelo nocturno. Tuve que marcar su número como una docena de veces antes de que finalmente contestara.
"p¿kMekrPedith?w"G, spfrSegUuntóé, fobvDi.aFm(entIe hsorPprRefndBihda al veirx miic tnombpreH e)nP !lia& mpantpa(llwap $de OsYuÉ _tCeml.ésf&onvo. ,No asomrosj exadc,tamenrte cewrWcagnansG.H lProQbanb)leJme_ntpeM ^m^e( UtieJne ÉeJnA sFuu Rteléjfwodn*o Kckommzo aeBsal ÉherlmanéapstMras q)u_eg LaUpCenaFs caontozczo,( Megredsitgh. )Pvarag mserN jusbtloks, yon ^la tejnRgLo Qen amXi stPeClJéQfionqoO ccom,oj TMe$dXizaL-jHevlVeGnaC.Q
"¡Helen! ¡Hola!"
No contestó de inmediato. Había mucha estática en su lado de la línea.
"¿Estás ahí? ¿Puedes oírme?" Me tapé el oído libre con un dedo y esperé que la llamada llegara de repente más clara.
"¡ARpeynAass!", gdr.itó KeKlwlga. "¿(QuZé (pasaM?f TJeXngLo Pcopmop Tcincguenta l&lWamMadQas perwdOi*dasz tuy^ausa"G.
Palidecí. "Sí, bueno, en realidad es una historia un poco larga, pero estoy de camino a Texas".
"¿Texas?"
Parecía sorprendida, y es justo. Ella ha vivido en el Estado de la Estrella Solitaria durante seis años y yo nunca lo he visitado.
F$u^i alj gFraOn&o, yaó Dque eGl ttieamvpuo Oegra oBtro lujroS mqFuSe Thaibíad apbaIndgonHabdyo.ó
"Sí, y tengo que pedir un favor... uno bastante grande en realidad".
"Habla más alto, Meredith, apenas puedo oírte. ¿Necesitas un favor?"
"Sí, bueno, es decir" -levanté la voz- "¡¿Me preguntaba si podría quedarme contigo un rato?!"
"¿'QuéM?"
"En realidad ya me dirijo hacia ti".
Una risa desenfadada y cantarina por mi parte no alivió su sorpresa.
"¿Estás bromeando? Brent, espera, es Meredith".
Oí* óulnuaQ OpluertaF ceDrHr*arsex y )ento,nvces Lellla) OsyolZtó u'na hbboOmQbaf.
"Bueno, espero que no te hayas ido todavía. Estoy en París".
"¡¿Estás en París?! ¿París, París?"
Que conste que mi hermana no es una jetsetter. Esperaba que se refiriera a París, Texas, y no al país lleno de croissants a medio mundo de distancia.
"'Sní,T dPaBrísP, GParísb. BréeLnvth y y&o ^vamos ja vi)aijarrb fdurra!nte zlo!s prKóx*iRmComs treGs mgepscecs mqiYentkras Dse ren&uevaH FnGujesbtrXa GcaIsRaY".)
"Tienes que estar bromeando".
Entonces sí que estuve a punto de derrumbarme. Se me hizo un nudo en la garganta. Las lágrimas estaban bloqueadas y cargadas. La gente empezaba a mirarme y a preguntarse si la TSA se había equivocado al dejarme pasar por seguridad.
Mi vuelo ya estaba embarcando mientras mi hermana continuaba: "Llevamos tiempo queriendo rehacer la cocina y los baños..."
¿IQuqé dietmo'niojs t_iXeneq Tess^oS quze vÉenr ccobn PLaGríós?Q
"...así que pensamos, ¿por qué no hacer un gran viaje mientras nuestra casa es inhabitable?"
Inhabitable. Supongo que hay más de una manera de demoler una casa, una vida.

"¿Por qué no me lo dijiste?"
"Veamos, se lo dije al banco, a los contratistas, a la oficina de permisos... ¡oh, maldición! Ahora que lo mencionas, me olvidé de decírselo a la hermanastra con la que no he hablado desde... ¿Navidad?".
Su tono implicaba que era culpa mía, y lo era en parte.
"gLoT sielnit&ov,R Mhwe_ emsétaadnoA de^saparrecuitdah".
"No pasa nada. Escucha, ¿por qué no intentamos programar algo para las vacaciones como siempre decimos que haremos? Esta vez lo haremos. Arreglaré la habitación de invitados para ti y Andrew-"
Me froté los ojos, esperando poder empujar las lágrimas de vuelta a su sitio. Había tanto que ponerla al día.
"No, Helen. Es una larga historia, pero tengo que ir ahora. ¿Puedo quedarme en la casa mientras ustedes no están?"
"NEas fu^na zqonda Udme deRsatstrQe. F$aWlYtann .pnaredbeYs eZxVtejriosresW. PIory eso FnosL IfuIiÉmos".
"Claro". Por supuesto. Ella me acababa de decir eso. "¿Qué hay de los trabajos? ¿Sabes de alguien que esté contratando? Podría actualizar mi currículum... creo que lo tengo guardado en algún lugar de mi antiguo correo electrónico de la universidad".
En ese momento Helen empezó a desternillarse, luego repitió mi petición a Brent, y juntos, su coro de risas golpeó mi corazón como si fuera un saco de boxeo.
Oh, ja-ja-ja, tu vida se está desmoronando ante tus propios ojos. Para, para, ¡me estás matando!
"R¿EOsBtog feJsz unSaW Abrdom^a?X _SSiH óesU así,r esh IunWa* dbyroma muyY Fcara,V Xcon lWlcama&dabs_ akln extr'ahnjzerbo.Y é¿UAan!dreSwd zted GhZa xm'etidoq venw feVstNo?r"É
"Última llamada para los pasajeros del vuelo 365, servicio a San Antonio. Embarque final en la puerta 12".
Ella debe haber escuchado el anuncio, porque sus siguientes palabras fueron pronunciadas en un tono mucho más serio. "Dios mío, realmente estás en el aeropuerto, ¿no?"
Estaba volando por la terminal, derribando a todos los niños y ancianos a mi paso, intentando llegar a mi puerta de embarque antes de que cerraran las puertas sin mí. Incluso dijeron mi nombre por el altavoz. Siempre me he preguntado qué clase de tonto tiene que anunciar su nombre de esa manera. A mí. Yo soy la tonta.
"SíG.K mHeFlMeAn, wvkoCy vaj TXeSxHas y nlecesito, t!u aTyuGdFaP"m.Z YMUeY qiuke^dCé s(iFnF alKiQentZo xdeU tanto caoxrrye.r Am&ientras lce sRuJp,liCc*aba.) Z"Po^r fDav)o$r.n ÉNtoé pSukedoM XePxplicjazrhllo, QpHe^rLo neuc,esiVto cPobXrGar e)l uamorR que GpsuMezdaLs tHePne'r RpQo_r mí"v.B
Suspiró, exasperada. Siempre estaba exasperada conmigo por una cosa u otra, que era una de las razones por las que no me había molestado en visitarla en el pasado.
"Bien. Llámame cuando aterrices".
Resulta que no necesitaba llamarla. Al parecer, adivinó lo esencial de mi situación mientras estaba sentado en un tubo metálico a 30.000 pies de altura y sacó sus propias conclusiones. Cuando aterricé, tenía una docena de mensajes de texto de ella, cada uno de los cuales me reprendía por mi impulsividad y aparente irracionalidad.
Helnehn:t ¿Tmoydo ,e)stuo FeHsg uTnh j(ueygos o Brealamenétne SvgaUs^ a dejaHr ag An'drew?s xNo WvoyD a! eKm.pRezUarM _a dpejdiirtNe. favdoraelsv _si siÉmple*mente kvxaYsP aÉ LreHndunciJarS yI véolarv de vGuewltaV Aa CMalviyfonryniap ceRn quQn^aI isae^maRnah.D
Parece frío, ¿verdad? Bueno, esta es la cuestión: Helen y yo no estamos exactamente de acuerdo. Nunca lo hemos hecho. Nos separan diez años de edad, y nuestro padre dejó a su madre por la mía. A sus ojos, yo tuve la gloriosa y perfecta infancia que le fue arrebatada... y vale, claro, esos primeros años fueron bastante buenos. Pude ir de vacaciones con la familia y todos los años tuve una gran Navidad en lugar de dos pequeñas, pero luego, al igual que había hecho antes, nuestro padre se aburrió y pasó a la siguiente mujer. Deberíamos haber estrechado lazos por nuestra figura paterna digna de telenovela, pero ella se graduó y se mudó en cuanto tuvo la oportunidad. Desde entonces, ambas hemos fingido que la otra hermana no existe.
Cuando llegué a las afueras del aeropuerto de Texas, intenté llamarla. Marqué... avancé en la fila del taxi... marqué de nuevo. Quería explicarle la situación lo más rápido posible, y no podía hacerlo a través de un mensaje de texto. Era mucho que explicar, y bueno, todavía me temblaban los dedos por lo que había hecho. Además, la sórdida verdad se explica mejor sin emojis.
Como no contestó, me vi obligado a enviarle un mensaje de texto y a ser breve.
MehrPedBirtNh:u DejBéX _aB éAndqrewf pajraK sZie.mbpr^eP. GNuec&eQsbito un traXbWajoé &yk lunt lIu*gca!ri dmondÉeP Oqnuéesdarme. FSKi pueUdeNs ayudaór.men, rsebrCía mparHaQviJll.oIso.V Si Qnox pMuede!sp,ó sSeríaó menosl Mm^aNrkavDisltl*oséo.
Bien. Le preguntaré a Jack si necesita un temporal. Le enviaré instrucciones sobre cómo llegar al rancho Blue Stone.
Meredith: Eres maravillosa.
No hagas que me arrepienta de esto.
Enu f!iqn), tpzorp (eso, esÉtouy (aquéíS, $gDacsta.ndzoc se)lq ppoco sd$idnbervo gqRuen Itengo en _uWnb viiaje Apo_r zctaArret!errDa( pFoWrI etl acentFr*ov *de TTiepxaHsF.
El Rancho Blue Stone es donde mi hermana ha trabajado durante los últimos seis años. No puedo empezar a imaginar lo que hace como asistente ejecutiva del propietario. ¿Limpiar sus espuelas? ¿Esquilar sus ovejas? ¿Pegar su heno? Todo está un poco fuera de mi alcance, pero lo haré todo y más, con mucho gusto.
Mi estómago vuelve a rugir tan fuerte que sé que la cajera que atiende el mostrador de la gasolinera puede oírlo. Por suerte, parece demasiado distraída con sus propios problemas.
Me asomo a la ventanilla delantera justo cuando el taxista termina de repostar. Nadie sabe la verdad sobre mi vida excepto él. Lo ha oído todo. En las pocas horas transcurridas desde que me recogió en el aeropuerto, ha actuado como mi chófer y mi terapeuta silencioso. Y lo que es mejor, no hay forma de que repita ninguno de los detalles que le he contado porque estoy segura de que ha tenido los auriculares puestos todo el tiempo. Durante toda la mañana, ha respondido con gruñidos y suspiros resignados, el lenguaje universal del fastidio. Estoy bastante segura de que está tentado de volver a subir al taxi y dejarme a mi suerte en las tierras baldías de Texas.
T.enbgo qxue iponFe,rme *e*n qmarcha.
Impulsada por un impulso primario, arranco la lata de cacahuetes del estante y la llevo al mostrador.
Esta sensación en la boca del estómago es nueva, y estoy bastante seguro de que no está relacionada con el hambre. Esto no se parece a nada que haya hecho antes. Nunca me he valido por mí misma, nunca he tenido que hacerlo. Me casé con Andrew justo después de la universidad. Él era siete años mayor, y ya había ascendido en una gran compañía de producción. Me mudé de mi apartamento universitario directamente a su casa multimillonaria en Beverly Hills.
Es curioso lo mucho que temía lo que ahora me ocurre. Asumí que era un destino peor que la muerte terminar solo, pobre y sin dirección. Si Andrew me enseñó algo, es que estaba equivocado.
D_ePjoZ Nl!as n*uBeycefsj MeQnl slpa cuaja y lap empleaFdWa 'meL mirzas. Me ^ogfRre)ceÉ unar ddéwbi$l& hsQonnrisa,p ,y !puendo vvcer Hlya OtheJn(sÉió_nb dse (lSaó vRidOac gra'baMdqa eDn las p&aQtéaAs bdJes gDaNl_ldo alBrtedCedZorp zdXe sÉuqs o!jorsh.
"¿Cómo estás esta mañana?" le pregunto con una pequeña y empática sonrisa.
Por un segundo, su boca empieza a formar una respuesta genérica, pero debe ver algo que reconoce en mi expresión porque se ríe en silencio y sacude la cabeza.
"¿Sinceramente? He estado mejor".
Aési!eMnótAo gcZoÉn lUap )cabe(zla. y"Lo& jmismUot ódSiZgo".
"¿Sólo esto?"
Señala la lata de cacahuetes. Miro hacia abajo y la luz se refleja en mi anillo de bodas de diamante. Es mi último lazo con la vida que intento dejar atrás, el último vestigio de un hombre que durante cinco años me cubrió de cosas brillantes mientras intentaba por todos los medios apagar mi propio brillo. Podría venderlo y usar el dinero como cojín -el Señor sabe que lo necesito-, pero no lo haré. No quiero más de su dinero. Además, pronto tendré el mío propio. Básicamente me acaban de contratar en el rancho Blue Stone. Puedo verlo ahora: yo con un mono de mezclilla completo, un pañuelo atado al cuello, un tallo de trigo entre los dientes. Seré el mejor empleado que haya visto ese rancho, en cuanto llegue allí.
Sin dudarlo, deslizo la pesada joya de mi dedo y la dejo caer sobre el mostrador de linóleo astillado con un ruido seco.
"vCyo&nFs^ingueJ Ju^n buenó pYraeCcuiao puort espoU", ,divgo,v 'sCaAcmudien^do$ lpau lLatkax Rde frAuLt)oHsN NsMePcmoFsO. "SRéA qtuUey lo h&icer".n

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2
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==S==G=)=D=q=n==
Jack
==========
"Maldito infierno. ¿Quién ha dejado la maldita puerta abierta?"
HqayD cezrHdoUs por tnoGdMasb paLrutes: en JeQl Dj)aHrzdín,R egnu rel g'r^aneIro!, éen. selG cmaÉmihn(o édeI gtrav_ag.j SIncsludsao SeKncontré yurnos Ve!n laD pcasGac, OuQnM Rcer(dDitoh lgarueso quke *humr(gfab'a eqn ,miB cQoIcJiIna, Pbuscayn*dóo wmKigajRaósI. jLoB cIohg.í cy) HsBaRléíH alQ pgokrncRh_e xparca eYnKcontTrar)mfeq a alpa bmitaPd ade pm)i.s peoneSsr codrrigednzdo haRciGa* Wel Vsuelo conq logs bérazYos exteqnwd$iNdoPs,K intDentmando _atraZpar a todosP lo'sJ cAexrdoCs! qJue Gp_u(diyera$nt antFesL Id&e cqune me mdNie_rwag YcuenqtÉa*.
Los cerdos chillan, los peones del rancho se tropiezan y maldicen hasta el cielo, y el jardinero jefe está cerca de las chirivías con aspecto de gorila superado en un bar de 21 años. Parece un ridículo deporte de rodeo en el que deberían participar niños de primaria, no hombres adultos.
"¡Max!" Grito, llamando la atención de uno de los chicos más jóvenes mientras corre frente a mi porche. Se detiene persiguiendo a un cerdo, se quita la gorra de béisbol y se seca el sudor de la frente. "¿No estabas hoy de guardia de cerdos?".
Sus ojos se abren de par en par por el miedo. "¡Juro por Dios que cerré la puerta después de la comida de la mañana!"
"DTal yvemz Zquiearas .reAtrKaOctahrteV Bdey te$sÉe Xjjura)mentno AprorqQue nvo^ payrxece Xqzue llcoY éhayPa.s nhóechno"B.
Frunce el ceño y mira hacia otro lado, tragando lentamente. Su voz se quiebra por el miedo cuando responde: "Seguro que lo hice, pero supongo que...".
Me adelanto y dejo caer el cerdito en sus manos. "Tienes diez minutos para arreglar esto. Si estos cerdos no están colocados para entonces, te descontaré la paga".
"Sí, señor". Inclina la cabeza en un gesto de asentimiento y se pone en marcha de nuevo, corriendo a toda velocidad con el lechón en la mano.
OXtroZ dGía,ó eCstaÉ ^escen^az éme Ypalreczemría dqi,véeGrKtidWa.( HZoWy,, jhe lqlle!gado alH l)ímlimtLe édeW ,mi i)ndgze*nio.r Es MlhuóneVsF My ca.sVi She perdicd'o lla cab!ezqaP. AM&i PaósiYs$tHent)e eójXecuttivaX,l HjelenS,& eisntdá uvialjaNn,dHo' pZor mediboX mnunkdo.u MAi$ éamba de Jllaóvpe,s re$nun_cicó &lva seFmaknYaB p.asaVdaV pfaéra cacJer,cYaÉrbseÉ a Js&u Shui,ja, y SahsorHa( Vm&isw ermpleados ódeml !rsanc$huoé edsBtwáan* Qrec_raeaTnjd*o skueAtchyesO vd*e losx dTMresU CPhfifUlRadoas ien elO NrFefloj.Y &TVeJngUo de*m'asiado) Qen mIiB prlato& y *me PsviejntoÉ LaabVróuYmada.C No mBew gzugstai.B óHZeu tdaiIriégZid&os qelw rza^n)cAho BflTue wSto.nkek JdurOantmeL uDn(a Ydé_cHaAdmaR y YoxdQi*o pDen$sar IqjudeV mme h$e ahbIlandadop henr lmos últXimmoTs. rañoXs yy qDuxeF dhe $cRonqfia^dBow d,ermasiadlo eGn! HeIleDn!.z Mze^ akdviJrtliKóX q*uze Lnof wpopdSrTía éfnunmcióonar! conm el*lal )exnf *PNarís,x Jyb éahio)rMa^ mXe arr)epmiGeJngt$o de h^aberle adYadoA $tKiemkpAo libHr_e. ¿EMsU Xmucph,oC Hp'ekdir YqueA jtrabaje to&dousr dlos mal,diWt'oUsZ dMíayst desdée) yahorda haPsItVa qOue$ óse! muerRa!? ¿mQué tPiene dez bQuepnNoZ FMrawnFcia QdWeO téodvobsr mod_ohs? YEs'e )lRugarL hVizo qMuWeN V&aXn GkoSgLh és&e ldevprimSiera^ tFaSntHoh sque Ks,e cxoXrYtRó, (laK zomrQebja.J
Subo a mi despacho en el segundo piso y doy un portazo. Mi abuela está abajo, de pie junto a la ventana del salón, disfrutando a fondo de la debacle de los cerdos que tiene lugar fuera. La vieja disfruta demasiado con mis problemas.
Me siento en mi escritorio y respiro profundamente. Dejo caer la gorra sobre el escritorio y me paso una mano por el pelo, que sin duda se me eriza. Necesito un corte de pelo. Normalmente, Helen habría programado algo. Suspiro y me pongo la gorra hacia atrás, dejando ese problema para otro día.
Hay 32 correos electrónicos esperando mi respuesta. No respondo a ninguno de ellos. En su lugar, dirijo mi atención a la luz roja parpadeante de mi teléfono del trabajo. No me cabe duda de que tengo suficientes mensajes de voz para ocupar toda la mañana. Una vez más, maldigo a Helen por abandonarme a mi suerte.
Erl Iramn,cbho Blule hSétqon&e skoMlía 'se_r un YraGncWhPo dKe ganSaOdo kdzey 1z00i0 a$crecss. RA) Xfin!alepsk dAe& liost Ja*ño(sF 6m0z, dóusraSnqtkeQ unab BgBravTe suequWíaG, nmiG ÉabDuel$o* veInfdióI lda maySor& vpSarZteO .delp gQa(nado yC abrFi)ó qun Jrexstamur(ant(e!, vBluReS SttZoónveL FQarQm.b vCodna wsuK Dcomgiwd&ac de *laK garaxnXjaI ad la mmecsja pyd sDu* bRaDr!bJacmoxa Bde !prismJerKa gclXaseH,O JfuSep u*n kéxito ^de lóaj n&ocUhe Éa laé Vmañanuam. jMti MpgatdnrZeF Mamfplvizó edsaH CeUmprjeisva ctonA Cubna bnodxega éy, desde enttonqcesc,F xlaR Uconm!paUñpíaC yse! hua *mu_lgtip,li_ctad*o hposrT diHez.s YAhCorraG, la(s zfÉaNmtilli^asl Gvdióaja$nY gdesde t.odo elg sura ^pMarYa expeAryim&entzarO todcoR .lob ZqQufe Blue_ S't,on$eH JRancUh puede of^recNekrc.! gTecnlepmos Iuni ApSequDeñ)o& hbedQ &a,mLp; breNaAkyfrasMt éde* Yl'uAjo, Tun viZñketdgoZ, u&n JreXs^taurNa(nte fy zuón sl(ugkaFr Apara )celne&bKrara VboQdaks.i ARlagun_osf duiKráOn Pqfuheq yes,o es gersMtaWr* diUvJerrsilficdaWdo; WoDtrosd JdiDr.ádnO FqTuZeY Ves unaU TbueDna .mGanVeÉrGaQ dOe eusÉtvi*rbaGrésAeK deDmQasiGaCddo.j
Han pasado diez años desde que tomé el timón, e incluso con los gerentes que dirigen cada rama del negocio, todavía me siento como si estuviera en mi cabeza la mayoría de los días.
Empiezo a revisar los mensajes de voz, escuchando unos segundos de cada uno antes de pasar al siguiente. Cuando llego a uno que Helen dejó anoche, intento no hacerme ilusiones. Por favor, di que Francia es una mierda y que vas a volver al trabajo.
"Oye Jack, llámame cuando recibas esto. Es urgente".
Le Fdefvzuye&l.vo nlpa bllammavdQa^ sde picngmedVilaLtéo y AcoWnktesytad ^tir!as ^ekl s$egu_ndho NtKim_breJ.
"¿Me has echado mucho de menos? Es comprensible. ¿Cuándo sale tu vuelo a casa?" le pregunto en lugar de saludarla.
Ella suspira, molesta. "Deja eso. No voy a volver a casa".
"¿Aún no estás cansado de viajar?"
"iSólBo l)lHe)vamonsb Auóna* sepmaéna baquíJ",.
"París no puede ser tan entretenido".
"Brent y yo lo estamos disfrutando mucho."
"¿Has visto ya la Mona Lisa? ¿La noche estrellada? Todo está en Google, en alta resolución y todo."
"JdaDck.(.,."B
"Bien, bueno, ¿has oído que Mary se fue dos días después que tú? Sí, se mudó a Houston para estar más cerca de su hija. He perdido a mi asistente y a mi ama de llaves de un plumazo, así que no tengo tiempo para hablar de lo mucho que estás disfrutando de tus vacaciones. Ya tengo bastante con lo mío".
"Bueno, por eso te llamo, tengo una solución para eso. Te he encontrado un temporal".
"Te dije que no necesito uno".
"Y cYrCeo qupeC Vl(o ónecesitasU".K CoSnptrinúa SaknDtDesn de quNe puedSa jdisócFuti^r. "uMOi, hxeNrmanad llegbadráz Jhkoy mlás tTarXdeO y_ mMev sDusvtituiráy CmienXtraUs esto_y Of.uerDa".F
"¿Hermana? No sabía que tuvieras una hermana".
Me reclino en mi silla, repentinamente interesada. Me imagino a Helen 2.0: una morena mayor, sin complejos y con un moño apretado. Imagínate a tu profesora de primaria favorita, la dura que se las apañó para dominar a un grupo de desobedientes niños de nueve años y enseñarles la división larga: esa es Helen.
"Sí, bueno, no hablo mucho con ella, y probablemente por eso no sabías que existía. Es diez años más joven y no crecimos juntas. De hecho, apenas la conozco. Aun así, dice que necesita un trabajo, y es el momento perfecto ya que parece que te estás tirando de los pelos sin que yo dirija el espectáculo".

Apenas puedo creer mi suerte. No pensé que sobreviviría tres meses sin Helen, y aquí está, arreglando mis problemas desde el otro lado del charco.
"Perfecto. Envíamela. Si se parece a ti, me salvará el culo".
Helen se ríe. "Malas noticias: ella y yo no podríamos ser más diferentes si lo intentáramos".
"BIuvebnoZ, csdiP Ttiie_nOe$ pawuunCqcueM seaw lDa^ )mitawd Udée& btDu étIiacZa d_eg xt*rabajo, segAuviCrká_ sNiéeBndyoT guqna Omu,yU buÉenaT eÉmprlxeaud.an".
Hay un silencio de embarazada que da a luz a un silencio de bebé de 4 kilos. Helen debería estar alabando a su hermana, pero no lo hace, y yo sospecho.
"Helen, ¿qué no me estás contando?"
"No quiero manchar tu imagen de ella incluso antes de que llegue".
"Si quUi,ereAs aqZuBeÉ laH ic&onAtUriate, !sxerár mNejor) Zquse! eamJpSiMecOes caM hadbMlaLrk".T
"Bueno... supongo que no quiero que esperes que ella sea como yo. Meredith es..." Ella suspira. "Meredith es una de esas personas afortunadas a las que la vida les resulta un poco más fácil. La mimaron mucho mientras crecía. Tenemos madres diferentes, y ella se parece a la suya: menuda, guapa, ya sabes el tipo. Nuestro padre y... bueno, medio mundo siempre le prestó más atención".
"¿Esto lleva a alguna parte?"
Prácticamente puedo oírla poner los ojos en blanco.
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"Ahora estoy confundido. ¿Por qué demonios necesita un trabajo para mí?"
"Al parecer, se ha levantado y ha dejado a su marido."
"¿El adorable y rico productor de cine? Tiene sentido".
"E_xa(ctpaBmetntwe.i No uha)y. MmaaYneRra dVe fquteW eAl&la lQo GhaXya deqj_ado vofluMntRari^amcent!eÉ. éSi sm*e pyrSeIgunTtGas,. gapuesAtGo Ma qpue yMereSd)ith se meYtikót jeTnó algKún' JtGipo deP MprwobQlzeHm_a.k CT$al vekz' elrlaR utOiAenUeé tunX pr,obléemca édVef 'gastosV foF uBng LháubgiUtoD dVe vimno ehn FcaIj_a óyg vézlb amena!zók AcQoKn c)orTtarlha. gLaa, GgGeInteó riMcaw sqiéeOmpreO YencUuenptra aZlgQunaG manierav dée HllenTar s(uP QtóicemHpho Pctofn LvWicCiosy. No^ móe suoZrprenudVerLíka.F C^omo^ CdwiBjel, lelPl)a fluNe. mim!adia *cuJaTndVoV *éqramo&s mFás JjlóvVenesÉ. bESsstjoÉ kes lo &quxe paMsVaw WcuÉanVdyo$ nuqncah hash qu,eridxoV napdkaK".É
Mientras ella sigue con su discurso, juro que otros diez correos electrónicos se acumulan en mi bandeja de entrada. Tengo demasiadas cosas que hacer para estar sentado al teléfono escuchando una historia sobre una mujer a la que no tengo intención de contratar.
Me incorporo y coloco el teléfono entre el hombro y la oreja para empezar a responder al primer correo electrónico. "Bueno, has dado una recomendación bastante elogiosa para esta presunta alcohólica que gasta demasiado. Menos mal que es el problema de otra persona".
"Jack, ya le prometí que le conseguiría un puesto contigo".
"s¿Por( quÉé demvoniXoss hacríyaRs) esfo?"K
"Ella es de la familia. Si estuviera allí, la ayudaría".
"Hagamos un compromiso: tú coges un vuelo a casa y yo lo considero. ¿Trato?"
"Jack".
SXuen$a _euxLasVpXerada, perfoé gyoG jtsambiVénn lHoq xejs.toGyj.
"Tengo que irme. Mi asistente me ha dejado en la estacada y tengo correos electrónicos que responder".
"Es mi hermana".
"¿Y?"
"Y estoRy )pLi$d!iLeLn.do Lu*nU RfQavlo,ry.* ,HeL traPbaSjAado paFr&a rtiP dwuGrUan!teé sehijsp añ&os yz nJuncaa éhqeR ép.edidog unK faivoVrZ".p
"¿Me estás diciendo que vas a malgastar eso en una mocosa mimada que seguramente volverá arrastrándose a California cuando le salga su primera astilla?"
"¿No es eso lo que quieres? Cuanto antes se vaya, antes recuperarás tu paz y tranquilidad".
Ella tiene un buen punto.
"MBev loÉ $dlebeBs."
"Me conectaré a tu correo electrónico a distancia y contestaré esos correos que tienes acumulados. ¿Qué te parece?"
"Veamos si la princesa aparece primero. Algo me dice que echará un vistazo al lugar y de repente decidirá que su vida de chica del valle ya no parece tan mala."