Victor had not moved on. He had stood with his drink in his hand and his face perfectly still, because Victor Garcia had learned a long time ago never to let anyone see what was happening inside him.
He had smiled at Paul and said, “Is that right? Good for her.” In a tone so smooth and easy that Paul had no idea he had just lit a fire.
But inside, something had cracked open. Victor drove home that night at twice the speed he should have, and he sat in his dark living room without turning on the lights, and he thought about it.
Elena, pregnant with another man’s child, married to a soldier of all things, living some warm, ordinary, happy life in the city as if she hadn’t just been his wife 3 years ago.
As if she hadn’t stood in their kitchen and cried and begged and eventually packed a bag in the middle of the night like he was something to run from.
The anger that came was not the normal kind. It wasn’t hot or loud. It was cold and quiet and deep, the kind that settles into your chest and doesn’t leave.
Victor didn’t think of himself as an abuser. He had never once used that word for himself.
In his mind, he had simply been a man who expected things, loyalty, respect, obedience, and got upset when he didn’t receive them.
That was all. He was demanding. He was particular. He had a temper. These were not crimes.
But Elena leaving, that had felt like a crime. Her leaving had felt like a theft, like she had reached into his life and taken something that belonged to him.
And now she was out there, round with another man’s baby, smiling in grocery stores and sending cheerful texts, and nobody had punished her for it.
Nobody had reminded her of who she belonged to. Victor opened his laptop and typed Elena’s name into a search bar.
He found her on social media. Her profile was mostly private, but there were a few things visible.
A photo of her and a woman he recognized as her sister Claire, both laughing at something off camera.
A post about a new park near her neighborhood. Small, ordinary things. A small, ordinary life.
He stared at her face in that photo for a long time. Then he started planning.
It took him 2 weeks to find out where she lived now. He didn’t do it himself.
He wasn’t stupid enough to leave that kind of trail. He knew a man, a private investigator named Roy, who asked no questions and sent invoices with vague descriptions.
Victor used him occasionally for business matters. This, he told himself, was also a business matter.
Roy came back with an address, a neighborhood, a daily schedule pieced together from observation.
