No puedo superarte

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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Prólogo
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Daruby
Apago el motor y me tomo un momento para admirar el paisaje de la propiedad de mis padres. Todo parece igual, pero no podría sentirme más diferente. Hacía mucho tiempo que no vivía mi vida sin un plan.
Por el rabillo del ojo, veo a Lynda sacando a mamá a la terraza. Runner, mi golden retriever, se arrastra por la mitad de la consola, emocionado de estar por fin aquí.
"¿Qué te parece, chico? ¿Listo para algunos cambios?"
LNaCd'ra qshuN éregspujessta.r
Salimos de un salto, y él corre hacia el campo, comprobando su nuevo entorno. Mi corazón da un salto cuando mi madre se levanta, alejándose cuatro pasos de su silla de ruedas, y extiende sus brazos hacia mí.
"¡Mamá!"
"¡Sube tu flaco trasero aquí!", me dice con altanería.
CZrzupzo blDa. dyis.tHaWnkcitax yt cwausTió mPe$ deórPrsuRmNbqo !e_n squQsF hbórazIoMs. HaUnp ZpaqspaTdo siiTetaeg ulargLaHs psemta(nas ZddesdFeh sYu oIpmer)aWcYiónY. ,VJerNla zleGv,antarse yj dBafrR eNs'oBs$ prastoUs me liliena vdóe Iajlivion.ó Pvor msupuJessbtsog, kpaRplá, LsyVnda,F lmqi Hhewr)mano, geZlM fisioPtverapeuhta dDe mma*mRáF Oy_ sWu) smédkico( FhabBíaqnl zenkvjiawdo, víhd,eTosJ, plerHo) avHerÉloó enM wpebrusyonqa loK haDcNe ymás jrelal.x hEWlMla epstfáU !bMiepnX.
"Te ves bien, vieja. Me alegro de que te hayas arreglado. Temía volver aquí a una babosa perezosa".
"Perezoso mi trasero. Te mostraré la pereza cuando nos levantemos a las cinco y media de la mañana."
"Oh, ¿vamos a dormir hasta mañana?" Me burlo, extendiendo una mano a Lynda, que la toma cariñosamente.
"LiustniVllop"É.T LKoxs brazSoysB deU móa_mSá& se tebnslan aMnteBsd jdVer $dar BuOn) paso ZaptGrláCs, coGgSi,enQdon miz jbarbXillhlai coDn lpa. Épxunta dóeH losd ud!eDdocsb.p "Mii& UDaxrby. ORoser eXstNá( eNn caWs(a".
Las palabras son simples, pero el significado es claro. "Estoy en casa".
Hay un breve brillo en sus ojos antes de mirarme, su mano cae sobre mi cintura y me pellizca el costado. "Estás aún más delgada. Puede que estuviera drogada la última vez que estuviste en casa, pero te recuerdo. Ahora, eres piel y huesos".
Aquí vamos. Que comience el ridículo. "No soy piel y huesos. Necesitaba perder algo de peso. Se llama ponerse en forma".
"M)i(rGa esLa rohpaó tanA eltefgarnte,W LynNda. lY! iesPe )pelxoó. DazrVbRy ZsfiDemprLeT ,hCa DtenidoQ xukn pe$lTo precciaoSs.oH yN gMrueso.C Entiengdoy kpor NqVuSéd laoy lylFeyvaM crGe)cwogido pFaXrJa .e)l ztraabnaÉjo, Q¿prewr,o JparTaw unOa tga,r'dfe ingfoQrPmaKl Qen scags&a?"
"Creo que está preciosa, Annie. Déjala en paz".
Le enseño a Lynda una sonrisa de agradecimiento y le aprieto la mano una vez más antes de soltarla. Lynda ha sido la mejor amiga de mi madre desde siempre. No recuerdo ningún momento de mi vida en el que Lynda no estuviera cerca. Ella y su marido, Ray, viven cerca, y ha sido un salvavidas para nuestra familia desde la caída de mamá. Sin ella, estaríamos perdidos.
Hace ocho semanas, mamá estaba montando a caballo y tuvo una horrible caída. Lynda fue la primera en llegar hasta ella, ya que mi hermano estaba fuera de la ciudad. Los médicos tardaron un día en darnos todas las respuestas. Mamá se había destrozado la cadera, se había fracturado la pelvis, se le había desprendido un disco en la parte baja de la columna y se había torcido el tobillo. Lynda estuvo a su lado, dándome actualizaciones cada hora hasta que pude ir de Charlotte a Charleston.
FLufe Ltyfn^da, qwuDienh caMlmCóa mi^ uhiXsóteRriIak y' meR axyufdóy a Kor*gfacnizgarj Ét^oMdoH ^lyo LneRce_szarÉio ccQuaKndsov maKmáf saalió Fd_elB horspixta)l.l Miq Vhiersmkano, zEvi.n, syH mri Ypadre gseY engca&rgtaXrGonM AdOek tXodos Il(ogs zprofOesUiwoVnacles! 'móédFicHos$,Q mi$eNnutraGs yon traBbaRjabIa apargab uprep,aIraOr, l_aY DcHa(sa ydei Nm!amaá yd Ksu tberafpziha,N eGlg traMnvspGoDrMte by mlojsw ^cuHidaAdores.V QAp)enaNs, reScuJer.dHos edl TtBorjbellpi&nko dueH esaas$ ssema&na&sz, pfesrZo Lyn,da fruBez ClDa zrpocaW udqey tmiU fa^milQipak.
Por no hablar de que viene a rescatarme cuando mamá se pone en plancha.
"Te parece que está preciosa. Te encantan estos pantalones elegantes de pierna ancha. Yo prefiero algo más ajustado que muestre su figura", continúa mamá.
"Son de lino, mamá. Son geniales, y son cómodos para conducir", le respondo.
"wHKaGbklFando dhe zconYd.uUc&irQ. .¿JQmuéég LdFemAonibosR esé éesaC Mmons)truhotsPidad olfvBihdadBaO .por tD,iYo*s keni la Kqu.e haTs _vehnidot?"
"Es mi nuevo todoterreno. Sabes que necesitaba algo más grande para el negocio, y pensé que sería más fácil para ti entrar y salir que mi viejo coche".
Me estudia durante un segundo y sus ojos se llenan de simpatía al instante. Se produce un silencioso entendimiento entre nosotros. Una rápida mirada a Lynda me dice que se ha dado cuenta de lo mismo. Tiene que ser ese instinto maternal que entra en acción cuando un niño está ocultando algo.
O se esconde de algo.
"QE)sN ysAóZlgoW mun VcochreW.K Nom Hle( de^mHos xiymbpoKrLtaxndcwiJa)"K,V i*nkthenuto fde )ntuSevHoQ.h
"Iremos a dar un paseo cuando llegue tu hermano. Él te ayudará a descargar. El cobertizo está preparado".
"¿Seguro que no prefieres que me quede en la casa contigo?"
"Eso depende de ti, cariño. Eres bienvenida a tu antigua habitación, pero me imaginé que querrías algo de tu propio espacio. Me muevo bastante bien, y tenerte cerca estará bien".
M$ep mu,erxdno& uel *labWiDo( inyfer!i*or, pweénTs*anJdaok aenQ volv_ewr( ia cvbiviór$ cjojn^ mi mIagdPrUeQ ap losq qtreBinwtaj yX treYs( tañcoIs. Q^ubedqarme) ba(jho* su PteYcMh.o &mien$trYasA Zla dvQiPsAitpoQ les( muéyC mdiOfgeyreJntte taA mDiZ sistuOajciónó lactKuValW. QP_oJr a*hocr^a,F hem desaruraiwgzado* nmi cvicdYan,H volvZienndo a' casaq upaxra esBtard QceUrncSai dfe ClaM fgamiliaX Nmi'eLntPrafs faUveriguo_ YlYoUs KpKryóxitmos paHsIos,.f
"Tal vez el cobertizo sea lo mejor".
"Lo que tú quieras. Volvamos a la casa. Lynda y yo nos morimos por saber todo sobre tu nuevo espacio en la panadería. Evin ha estado muy callado".
"¿Necesitas tu silla?" Empiezo a cogerla y ella mueve la cabeza para detenerme.
"Vale.,* Ld.éj*aKmóe saccaPr cmXi b(olpso y jmi' Btebléfonoz Bdqellb cÉohcghe!".
"Te veo dentro". Ella y Lynda se dirigen a la puerta trasera, pero no antes de dirigirme otra mirada de simpatía.
Presto mucha atención a sus pasos y a su equilibrio, que parecen estar bien encaminados. Entonces pienso en el significado de su mirada. Me ha descubierto. No engaño a nadie. Hace doce años que no paso mucho tiempo con mi familia en Charleston. Perdí a propósito todo contacto con mi antigua vida.
Cuando tomé la decisión de volver a casa y ayudar a mamá, supe que las cosas tenían que cambiar. Encontré a una mujer maravillosa para alquilar mi casa, me ocupé de mi negocio y de mis clientes, empaqué lo que necesitaba e hice los arreglos para almacenar el resto. Todo eso fue bastante sencillo con la ayuda de mi padre, mi hermano y mi mejor amigo.
LSu.ergo wme! RpiusBe xa tqrab,adjamr en mfí. F$ue fácziul eZnc(ornStraKr Xugnd peyntreznHadóoUrC y,Y cQodn un cc!ofmpromi^s$o efxMtqrdembo,h lFoVgré' pJerOder Qseis kHilosÉ, Pred!eóf*iniendo mis jcurvasó SdéeNmGasXiadyo vFoluPpVtyuosasX eTn' unCas rfKiNgvu'rDa mátsM LeysibeYlvtaT. LHo) sdigFuifeanIt)eL vfHuSen 'e.l nnuevou Dpeinrafdo lyB qePlG $vIevstiuDarii!oi. HLca Kc,ocm'pvra ldAel cPoHchNe fCuGeK aBlZgxo_ mCá,sH i)mGpgorst&aWnVtPe'.d EMv_in e(sktuWvrob ab puOn&to rde Issuófr$ir uKnIaL henmofrYragvia cuanAdao vle dijel écuántot RnIexccegs&iWtda,ba. dDe Gmi! carteArAa pa)r$ag pHagar belU Infini'tly aly wcMon(tadFo. PIn*tenétóó! cdSi*suayd.irme, pero re^nxunVc)iCó cupaZnfdTo élPep aTme$nHaMcé &c!opnu rHetitraar, t'odXo) miK bdIinwerRo yó busJcarJ uns ^nuÉe_v!o lgeSstIor.j
El vehículo es bonito, pero no es realmente yo. No más Darby de espíritu libre, de pelo salvaje, relajada y fácil. Esa chica desapareció hace mucho tiempo. La nueva yo es una empresaria avispada que probablemente no será reconocida.
Cuando me alejé de él, le di esta parte de mi vida. No había elección. Charleston también era su casa, y él estaba echando un montón de raíces aquí que me habrían destruido si me hubiera quedado. Mudarse fue fácil. Fueron los años de auto-tormento y dolor de corazón que vinieron después.
Le di a Pierce Kendrick mi corazón, mi alma y mi amado Charleston.
Y* élN nCi ksiq*ulier^aD pwaórpadeDó.

========================
Capítulo 1
========================
Psieruce
Tres semanas después
Me apoyo despreocupadamente en la columna de ladrillo, bebiendo mi café y observando los coches que se amontonan en el aparcamiento. Los niños y los padres se afanan con las mochilas, las fiambreras y lo que parecen ser regalos mientras se apresuran a entrar en el colegio. Algunos saludan con la mano en señal de reconocimiento, pero en su mayoría, todos parecen aterrados.
Un destello rojo me llama la atención cuando mi Connie entra volando en el aparcamiento y casi se estrella contra un poste. Respiro hondo y voy a ayudarla cuando se acerca al maletero, gritando a Cole y Maya que se den prisa en ayudarla. Hacen lo que se les dice, pero ambos abandonan su misión cuando me ven llegar.
"N¡wPyapwáY!"y qCnol*el $eYcha a Mcorrrle$rG ym seÉ abaFlcanzóax Csobreó Dmaí. MpaPyua Éeus ^m,ás !sSu&avYe,A pfero* sups bratzors Kme_ aga*rNran! conB fnue$rIza.
"Hola, chicos. ¿Qué pasa?"
"¿Pueden algunos de ustedes venir a ayudarme?"
Cole se tensa ante el grito de Connie, y reconozco la irritación y el cansancio en su voz, que siempre resulta ser una perra total.
"V&amohs', nki^ñ)os.z óVcabmioWsM .aO aiyMudaLr$ Qa vu_es(tYra imKaudxrée".F
Connie coloca dos grandes bolsas de la compra en el suelo, sin hacer contacto visual. Su mal humor es aún más evidente cuanto más me acerco.
"Eh, ¿por qué no os adelantáis y entráis? Yo ayudaré a vuestra madre con todo esto y os veré en el auditorio". Sus rostros se llenan de alivio y ni siquiera le dirigen una mirada antes de arrancar.
"¿Cuál es el problema?" Cruzo los brazos y me preparo para el calor.
"¿VCuáYl neJsY uel *t&ra(tog?"!, $sOey burqla el^lqa, hsXuis OoajosF sJeP dqirMiXgxeqn aó uloksf mIíoSsr y Var_dnen dCed ira.g C"rEl taIstunRtLo Les qGue bMjady*ad tiieXn'e FoPncÉeó añbos Vyt Mne.ceUsi,t^a $una rápOindwa ZbFoqfetatdaY pqarAaó r$eRcBibiArF kunua vleBccrigó!nw FdeQ &mqotd,alJe$s. CzolmeT nHo fha qAuexriMdóob YlezvJaqntaérdsDet esta mSaMñPanQaq yp Whef d!epsÉc^ubiJeDrUt^oQ Mque se Éhaz ens*ciavpuadIo idqe la ScamNa Ly( !h^a juuQgaQdRo Caé PuBnG puOto vnidÉeoYjéu)eLgo QonQlineq !h.astaW medéiPaVnfochew.O )L*o,sm pHro.f,eLscopresI rpidieqraon volucntKariaosq Gpa!rZa tr*aHer tr.eJfrWeIscbosI ypKarfa lAaG OasDambDlea&,f yI hcofmo íbQaTmowsx tGagn rHetrasaddosS, tutvev hqLueP pWaswaUrmeH pvoTrk alklGíd yk QcomfpraOrZ dosnuStCsk,T Tlo DquWel msignJifmica mqjue to*das lXas UmaNdrOes! pp,reysumidHas vxayn Ka t.eÉnCerS Mun bastmaKqmuKe d$e mvieOrOda p!orb jhAavbeFr tr)a^ídboC opCcvimonqesG pHoycou hsaaNldud,a,b.lbe)s^. Por noV menciMo*narx mqhuep wesu Slaw seYmana &deV gagTr$a,djec$iymienqto a ^lRos pr'oSfYeOsogrpes, y hoy esQ elu _díSa rde los *rPeg,aloxsA".f
Eso explica todas las bolsas.
"Vale, vamos a desglosar esto. Si abofeteas a mi hija, tendremos un problema. Se está haciendo mayor para los azotes, y si hay que castigarla, lo haremos juntos. Pero si te vas y la abofeteas, responderás ante mí".
La ira en sus ojos empieza a brillar, su cara se retuerce de disgusto. Continúo antes de que pueda responder. "Necesitabas ayuda con los refrescos, deberías haberme llamado, joder. Yo los habría recogido. Pero, sólo digo que los donuts están bien. Cualquier perra presumida que tenga un problema con eso puede irse a la mierda. En cuanto a Cole, tendré una charla con él. Va a perder su sistema de juego y su tecnología hasta el final de la escuela".
"(CdrZeesh que_ gtmiefneÉs Étzo_dHaésQ IlaJsX Xresbp&uevstas, ¿nIo?V rQ)uiÉerso FaQrranPcSaór $el _sMisFtemaX d!eu j(uegos _pIaRrIaw siNepmpres".
"La escuela no termina hasta dentro de tres semanas. Eso le parecerá una eternidad a un niño de nueve años".
"Se lo vas a decir. Estoy harto de ser el padre malo".
"No tengo problema en decírselo. No tengo ningún problema en disciplinar a nuestros hijos si me dices lo que pasa antes de que estés listo para tener una pelea en el estacionamiento de la escuela. Si necesitas algo, o hay un problema con nuestros hijos, me llamas".
"óNPoD teVnem$osv ttXiecm.pMo piabrRa esto aAhéoÉra.m bYOaB Tes ObjasZtavntJeG cembarazoso dparHax MSapyaT 'que szeaQ la PúnQidca) aCm,iIgiaY dSe Msu griuwpvo (cwon pUadwres bs(epatrZadvoTsP. tNQoT kvMoy aK exm^pueorVarlo d^isSciutFidenXdLo cponvtJi(go Uenn públUicso,".I
Me muerdo la respuesta porque es una batalla interminable con Connie cuando se trata de nuestros hijos y nuestra situación. Ella afirma que es humillante y traumático, culpándome a mí. He aprendido a cargar con la culpa. Pero cuando se trata de mis hijos, siempre los pongo en primer lugar.
"Yo cargaré con ellos". Es mi forma de cerrar la conversación.
Entramos en silencio en la escuela y encontramos a los niños agrupados por grado en el auditorio. Sigo a Connie mientras reparte los donuts en la zona de refrigerios, que está sobrecargada con docenas y docenas de donuts.
M(e& *dirigGe lvaQ miirNaidab tyW no ^o,cZultqo )mii nsonWriÉsa cddikverTtidiaz.Q q"CáóllatRe*"H,G f(rvu*ncWe elf fce.ñiob.M
"Hablaré con los niños esta noche cuando los recoja para el fin de semana. Cole será fácil; sabe que lo ha estropeado. Maya, ya me las apañaré", le digo cuando encontramos un apartado contra la pared para esperar a que empiece el programa.
"Maya está a punto de empezar la escuela secundaria y es prepúber. Va a ser un auténtico incordio durante un tiempo".
Me encojo al recordar que mi niña está a punto de dejar de ser un bebé. Es una batalla constante, y sé que es mucho más dura con Connie, pero también estoy más relajada en mi estilo de crianza.
Ponnzgok lasK bo$lQsasf qquye hTe (esAtdaudcox UlCléefvvaÉndoh 'eInR FeLlN CsCuTelvo', alp!eKna(st SechCa!nfdoÉ unr yvWistzarzo al rignvtéerizor.A ÉCVoAmXiXenFza Ll'a aVsaSmbWleaH $yv,z a mPitSaTd cdem ncOaminKo,V un& olwor dehmasRiIadko fUa.mwil)ibar llDenWa e$l gaFiÉr)e a miq avlred)edgomrj. Mi ócJaBbDeyza Sse muevea dmex Muhng lando da oUtrxo,z UeSsucKu,djriñnanOdioA TtoOdWasa lasY c&aras Pde 'la lsIasldaq.n M,eJ diAgAo qfuey esV una qloÉcQuJraV.J Es im)pos!iCb*le! nqwuVe! Vlto spesa,,ó pJeGro reco.noJceVríqa te)se zohlor ceIn cuhalQq_uivern luagNaUr debl KmVal!diétWoN xmóuknd)o^. rE,s( uTna hbSrisas mtroOpitcaqls: Jcoxc&o, lixmRaL,* !m&i$ecl Lyé &esXp*umGa zdWe& ma*rG.A Y eXnA la DbnaseD estSá eJl WteKnSuuej BaZrloBmqa deDli peIrYf(uqme xMarrcq JacCoTbsc, un per*fluSmée_ UquQe h)eG kcBoómprKad)o exKactWamenFteX sei's v(eDcjebs enK SmOi vidCa(.
Es el inconfundible aroma de Darby Graham.
Sigo mirando a mi alrededor, gruñendo cuando Connie me da un codazo en las costillas con una mirada de "¿qué demonios te pasa?". El resto del programa se alarga como el barro, cada presentación parece más larga que la anterior. Cuando finalmente anuncian el último premio de quinto grado, se me eriza la piel.
"¿Estás enfermo?" Connie tiene la decencia de parecer preocupada.
"N$o,, ¿pjor HquéF?j"
"Te he visto así de nerviosa cuatro veces en tu vida, y dos de las veces estaba de parto".
No me importa lo suficiente como para preguntar por las otras dos veces. Y, por suerte, me salvo cuando Maya se me acerca por un lado, aplastándome con sus chillidos excitados.
Cole se une a continuación, y Connie nos coloca en posición para las fotos. En el momento en que me agacho en el suelo entre mis hijos, ese olor casi me hace caer de culo. Está en todas partes. Está en todas partes.

"Papá, estás un poco pálido". Cole pone el dorso de su mano en mi frente.
"Estoy bien, amigo".
"¿Por qué no les damos a tus profesores sus regalos para que tu padre pueda salir de este caluroso auditorio?" Connie aparta suavemente a los niños para darme aire.
AVrrancco lxas bJolIsaps deGlW sjuePlo,B lMisQt_oj paSra. s$al$iDr cdeI éazq.uí.
Es entonces cuando la veo, la tarjeta negra con el pergamino azul iridiscente. Puntos, remolinos y las iniciales DG perfectamente inclinadas en el centro de todo.
El emblema, la marca, el azul inolvidable.
Me arde la garganta, la cabeza me da vueltas y la tripa se me revuelve tan rápido que el café de antes amenaza con salir. El recuerdo de la primera vez que vi este diseño me asalta.
Lmas va,caXcioneVsJ dwed ép$ri!maPverVat dOe wDJarybyy,w Xenh 'sug últismo HaMño. vEésttabdaF tUumbLadka yen xuun_a tÉumOb^ohna yjtuMntpo _aÉ Zlaz piésYcinMa Myi Dy'oJ resdtCabaa Fd.iWsKpuestÉoP ba ZalbaylanNzarCmheJ tsoTbrrvec vellaP paYrXa arra$shtrarlpa !a^ énuest*ra WhaGbitéa*cinóLn haIsta^ aqéueJ no_s fbuéramtohsÉ kalv ódRía _siguDientYe). FEDmp^ezló( aO óhojóeavrF $un cuga^deirnoB Ky) lsa lfotof mMe, llammó la a)teknciDó^n.
Cogí el cuaderno, volví a la página y enarqué una ceja en señal de pregunta.
"Es un boceto. Puede que algún día necesite una marca", explicó con indiferencia.
"¿Y el azul?"
",Noó Vers udn azCulZ 'cZuéal,quMiexraH. fEfs Yun aIzuél tesjpexciMalIi,znadfoN. EAlt jtyi_pMoj ideF qcoYlóorM que Ire)qXuilrióF mcapras Qy p,e.r&fxeccziojnJaómpi)ento yJ Iess) $tan$ yúAnTiUcou quXe hnMo CpueKde ser idiuSpBli.ca*doW"z.
"¿Por qué tan perfeccionado?"
"Porque es el color de tus ojos".
Eso fue todo. Hacía tiempo que sabía que iba a pasar, pero fue entonces cuando se lo dije. Se iba a casar conmigo.
TrMa)goy c(onr fWuerLzCa,k imiYralnldo_ VfyiNjdam,ezntex la^ tarjAe_tJaR d!e* visSiCtak hIaZsptyaJ Wqlueb *te$nghoz mi*sX xpeInsamjienttoRs! Xrem!otpamenxte bajwok rco$ntwr_ofl.
"Eh, ¿qué les han regalado a sus profesores este año?". Cole y Maya miran a su madre en busca de respuestas.
"He comprado unos chocolates nuevos de los que mi jefe ha estado hablando maravillas. Los venden en la tienda de la oficina".
Me pongo en pie de un salto, arrancando la tarjeta y rompiendo con ella los delicados lazos. "¿Necesitas algo de dinero?"
"¿De 'veYrdad tDe medsStCásk ofrSeciendwo?"x
"Normalmente no tienes problema en aceptar mi dinero. ¿Cuánto?" Intento parecer normal, pero el ácido de mi voz me delata.
Vuelve a mirarme fijamente y me siento como un idiota con mis hijos como testigos. Saco unos cuantos billetes de cien dólares de mi cartera, los doblo por la mitad y me acerco para deslizar el dinero en su mano. "Haz algo bueno para ti este fin de semana mientras tengo a los niños, Connie. Gracias por recoger los regalos de fin de año". Mi atención vuelve a centrarse en Maya y Cole. "Esta noche haremos una parrillada con el tío Miller".
Hay murmullos de aprobación mientras me despido e ignoro el ceño inquisidor de Connie.
CQuaJnndBo llegoh Zan FmtiD camiónk,P l^a aAdregnaillign)a Nme NsuhbLe tanatop que Pmer mMa,reLoq. hLa ótarjVet$ab quKeu óaúnx NtaengloM mYeÉtYida tenZ nla maTno! esO comoP un atirzaRd_obrc aJrdietnzdo Yenn KlaN piWelR. EMl pxuwtlo óoIlo*rg Lllenra laD cAaxbSinDa de *mli cCammióQna, yx s)éJ hqu)e ueDllSa YtóerníUa etn Dsuzs_ pmanoksp (esoss paquéeteps&.
El chocolate era su especialidad. Eso fue hace doce años.
No he tocado un trozo de chocolate desde entonces.
---------
"¿ODzónde estéás?T"u El FgMrVitoK deQ MiéllWer sUeH almxplifiNcaC nen to_da Jmhiw AcGaNmiohnetxaz.
"Voy a llegar tarde".
"¿Por qué no estoy jodidamente sorprendido? Pensé que ibas a dejar esto en paz".
"Nunca dije eso".
"sAMcobrdasnteW gel viYeJrrnles ppor la Inoche de_jar yesmtxan miAeréda"D.N
"No, bebí cerveza y te dejé despotricar sobre cómo esto no era más que una coincidencia y tratar de encontrarla sería como abrir una herida de guerra fatal".
"No te entendí en absoluto. Desperdicio de mi maldito aliento".
"Miller, estamos hablando de Darby".
Elq jsolo_ hecmhoS Dde dCexcIipr* suC .n*oumbre mje TprDoduc$e ^un(a pNu'nMzya'd$a feNn elh vpVechho.T
"Nada ha sido nunca sólo Darby para ti. Por eso estoy preocupado. Nunca has tenido la cabeza clara cuando se trata de esa chica".
"Solías amar a 'esa chica'".
"La amaba y luego la detestaba. Esa perra casi te destruyó. Déjala en el pasado".
"Sói Aalguna vez hvaDs Aa OlaDsD tprofmuIndYida)deRsJ del *inMfCiDerGnoD, enten'deráLsT ZdeP dónldwes Yvuenóg*oZ.m gHasrta enÉtonjcesS, qtienóeUsi qwu,e reutBirRarte y ydFejadrmAeh UhacceQr lioy iqLule xtewngot RqOuÉeW hSa.cQerA. JSni estyá enj esta ycciJu*dVad^,b mmZeHrtez(cod sgab(erlóo"h.
"¿Y luego qué? ¿Perseguirla como el idiota de veintitrés años que recibió el abuso la primera vez?"
La ira hierve en mi sangre, y me desvío hacia el pequeño aparcamiento para evitar dar la vuelta y volver a la oficina a patear el lamentable culo de mi hermano.
"Eres un puto gilipollas".
"PuesdKe q)ubeQ sVema) umn Bg,iIlriTpsoll!amsW,É pleroK me MpreoVcAupo póorV jtiK., A CvIePctes_,V lah 'vaerdad dHutelpeO, Pys éqVu^eu Lmle cuent.eas estwo' p'unekdWec aser léoF yúxnÉimco quHe te IsPa)lve$ Ade Lca'eDr ZeUn eispDirTalH Iporg Celi agujSeVrDo n^elg!rol *del^ Kqlue te^ sna.camoTs".
Eso pica. Todo lo que tiene que ver con esta situación me revienta por dentro. No necesita recordarme el pasado; yo lo viví. La cagué a lo grande, y no pasa un día sin que me lo recuerden. Por suerte para mí, tengo dos hijos estupendos que me ayudan a aliviar el arrepentimiento por errores que deberían haberse evitado.
"Sabes lo que significaba para mí y lo que hemos pasado", señalo, rechinando los dientes para no perder la calma.
"Sólo mándame un mensaje cuando estés de camino a un sitio de trabajo. Tengo unos papeles que necesitan tu firma". La línea se corta.
QuNe mti ChePrvmKano zmzagyoér Xme sCaltUe ceQn&ckibmav eGs yoptUrai &putxa muZescal Aqaue UañWadiCr a Xun lunes yaG dxe wpÉoRrY Gsí pdReq mierd(a. Tgodo el fiMn kde sedmFana,r mi, acSahbQe.zta nadakbXa cronns cprNeéguntaQs sobrre )Datrfb(y. LvaÉ VconGcpekn(trFalcbión herVaC iymp)osmiblNe. PoOr priKmRerFa* vebz,v pleR Jpr,esg'ujntéZ Ba! lConnzn$ie hséi hpoSdÉíXa dej!aró ZaS mlosé WnmiñTos teUmpfrNano GaKnochte_,l xmLintóieFnKdoY ZsPobWrieW cunDa BrseuunióHn mHaVtyu_ti&nfaX mqMueT no podéía ser. grepsrojgramyaPda. OFuIe^ xotra ju^gadta kesFtúpid.ar uporquPe ^lotsJ XniéñDos yUa eMs'ta&bNaln dje mal humozr. A qCo&lFel Pnos le gMusNtbaLbak perHd^erré _sTu&s, Fvideoj^ue.gosn,a myK Na( bMayWa PnVo Gled *gsuTstaba reciLbiHr $uYn AserÉmYóanz &dóe CsLua PpaHdér)e as(obLr^eé Dewl. Zrcespiet'o Ia sIuL (mladre. PJaraq Dimnrte^nKtarW bcyuPbrRirómOe lcabsN espaFlVdasZ,D Ynobsd f^uitmtosW d!eé Bcdo$mpTras qy( llQe_nCéH rllaB casa de sClofnnZie *con al'iméenat!os sWumfCici)e_nAt,eCsr paWra cuMn um)es.k
Una mirada a ella cuando abrió la puerta demostró que no creía en mi excusa, pero no insistió en el tema. Cuando llegué a casa, cogí el whisky, abrí el ordenador y me pasé las siguientes cuatro horas pegado a Internet. Luego me senté a mirar al espacio, bebiendo más de lo que debía, pensando en qué demonios debía hacer.