Chapter 150|| Reinaldo’s POV ||Texas had not been an accident."New York had not fooled me," Fiol says inHer name, her clean paperwork, her quiet life of an artist—that had all been impressive. Almost admirable.Nearly.I had observed her for months before I finally set foot in this apartment. I knew her patterns. Times. Her momentary indecision over crosswalks. The habit of checking her reflection in store windows rather than turning her head. She had been careful—pain can make people predictable.And hope made them careless.I sat in the dark of her apartment, drinking in air thick with the scent of oil paint and turpentine, listening to the creaking of her building. I had gotten there hours before she arrived. The cameras were already online. The door had opened readily. She trusted the world far too much.Hearing her footsteps in the hallway, measured but fatigued, a knot formed in me—not anticipation, not relief.Feedback."This," I thought, "was the woman who had destroyed my
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