Marcos had almost reached the ambulance when the paramedic suddenly raised his hand.
“Wait.”
His colleague stopped beside the stretcher.
“What is it?”
The man was staring at Ana Clara’s neck. He repositioned his fingers, then reached for another monitor.
Marcos felt the hope inside him turn into something painful.
“What’s happening?”
For several seconds, nobody answered.
Then the paramedic looked up.
“There may be a pulse.”
Marcos gripped the ambulance door.
“My wife’s?”
“Please give us room.”
The doors closed before he could ask anything else.
Through the window, he watched them work around the woman he had spent the entire morning trying to say goodbye to.
Then one of the paramedics opened the front passenger door.
“Get in.”
At the hospital, Ana Clara disappeared behind a set of swinging doors.
Marcos tried to follow.
A nurse stopped him gently.
“Let them help her.”
“Then tell them she’s seven months pregnant. Tell them his name is Miguel.”
“I will.”
“And hers is Ana Clara.”
The nurse held his gaze.
“I’ll tell them.”
He sat down because his legs could no longer hold him.
His shirt still smelled of the incense from the funeral room.
Twenty minutes later, the police officer arrived carrying a folder.
“My name is Detective Helena Duarte. I need to clarify something.”
“Is my wife alive?”
“The doctors will answer that. I need you to tell me who informed you she had died.”
“Gustavo.”
“Did you speak directly with anyone at the hospital where she was supposedly taken?”
Marcos opened his mouth.
Then closed it.
Gustavo had called him.
Gustavo had brought the documents.
Gustavo had explained that seeing Ana Clara before the funeral would only make things harder.
“He said he would handle everything,” Marcos whispered.
Helena glanced down at the folder.
“The physician named on this certificate says he never treated your wife.”
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