Your mother is inside that house.
So is Lucía.
And in your chest, beneath the polished certainty you wear like one of your tailored suits, is a hard private conviction that by the end of the day you will be proven right. The cleaning girl is careless. Too informal. Too comfortable. Too willing to treat your mother’s decline like something human instead of something to be contained.
You glance at your phone again.
No live camera feeds, because you shut them down yourself before leaving. If Lucía thought she was being watched, she would behave. You don’t want behavior. You want truth. You want one clear mistake, one act of negligence, one crossed line that justifies the distrust you felt the first moment you saw her humming in the hallway with a dust rag in her hand.
The driver finally clears his throat. “Should I stay, sir?”
You keep your eyes on the rear service entrance. “Yes.”
He nods and faces forward again.
