At first, Manuel thought it was simply her adjusting to a new school. But he soon observed a disturbing pattern.
Every afternoon, as the bus emptied, Lucía would cry silently, frantically wiping away her tears before reaching her stop.
Manuel, his paternal instincts heightened, tried to talk to her: “Had a tough day, honey?” he would ask, glancing in the rearview mirror.
She always answered with a trembling whisper: “Everything’s fine, Manuel.”
But her eyes told a different story; they screamed for help.
One Tuesday afternoon, the bus hit a sharp bump. In the rearview mirror, Manuel saw Lucía startle and quickly shove something into the ventilation opening under her seat.
There was a metallic and plastic clinking sound.
When they arrived at their stop, a tall man with a cold, calculating gaze was waiting for her. It was Javier, her stepfather.
He didn’t greet Manuel, only made a brusque gesture for the girl to get off.
The way she flinched at the sight of him chilled the driver to the bone.
