That kind of fear does not appear out of nowhere.
You have spent most of your life learning what fear looks like when it is trying not to be seen. It lives in clenched shoulders, in careful voices, in apologies spoken before anyone asks for them. Right now it lives in the way Ximena grips her purple backpack so hard her knuckles lose color. And the second Esteban glances at her, just once, too quickly, you know the problem is not unpaid wages alone.
You straighten slowly, letting the silence do what shouting never can.
“Carolina Reyes,” you say again. “Why didn’t you pay her?”
Esteban lets out a breath through his nose, the small kind of laugh men use when they think a room still belongs to them. “Sir, I’m sure this is a misunderstanding. Payroll matters are handled through administration, not by me personally. If one of our employees has involved a guest in a private labor issue, I can assure you we’ll address it.”
Guest.
The word almost makes Rafa smile.
You are not smiling.
