The officer explained that he could enter to get his clothes and personal documents, but he couldn’t remove furniture or unrecorded papers. Bruno looked insulted by the idea of being watched in his own trap.
I took off the chain. He walked in slowly. He looked at the impeccable house. The shining kitchen. The windows without a smudge. The waxed floor. Everything he used to measure me. Everything he never thanked me for.
“You really do clean well,” he murmured, perhaps without thinking.
I felt a cold calm. “No, Bruno. I hold things together well. Cleaning was the least of it.”
He went to the bedroom. I followed him with Sandra. Mrs. Mireya tried to enter, too, but the officer stopped her.
“Only the gentleman.”
“I’m his mother!”
“Precisely,” Sandra said.
Bruno stuffed clothes into a suitcase. He took colognes, belts, papers from his drawer. When he tried to grab the house folder, I put my hand on it.
“That stays.”
“I need documents.”
