Chapter 4
I woke up furious, punching the air. I don’t know how long I had been out.
My head was pounding, and I lay on a floral-patterned sofa.
I immediately recognized Umberto’s tacky living room in the Chopin Building.
For a second, I wondered if I’d emerged from a nightmare.
No … Those smells, sounds, and images were too visceral to be a fever dream.
Umberto appeared, holding a glass of water.
He left it on a small table next to me and sat down in the purple armchair, which seemed to be his favorite.
“All that … How can you…?” I started to say, but a stabbing headache clouded my thoughts.
“Relax, kid, don’t get all worked up again.”
“It’s sadistic … treating people like they’re…”
“Drink your water,” he said.
I obeyed like a little lamb. Water had never tasted so good.
“If it’s any consolation, the seagulls served at the villa are special. They don’t go through that whole process. After all, you’re the ones who butcher them,” he said. “Now go home and rest.”
“My friends are going to ask questions. They’ll want to know what’s going on, too. The woman on that flyer…”
“That’s your problem. Tell the truth or make something up. But be creative if you have to,” he said, pouring himself a shot of whiskey. “You’re excused from dinner this weekend, if you want.”
“I’m never going to another dinner again … after the things I saw…”
“Dante, my boy, you’re fired up,” said Umberto, sipping his whiskey. “Just do as I tell you: Go cool off. Get some rest. The car keys are over there on the coffee table. We’ll talk later. You can’t jump ship now, not when we’re all in the same boat.”
“I’m not scared of going to jail.”
“That’s the least of your problems, kid.” He raised his glass like he was making a toast. “Bye-bye now.”
Umberto disappeared down the hallway, leaving me alone in the living room.
I felt like knocking over an expensive-looking golden vase, but I knew it would just be a foolish provocation.
I grabbed the car keys and slammed the door behind me.
I turned on my phone and several messages immediately popped up, in addition to thirteen unanswered calls from Miguel.
I called him back, but he didn’t answer.
I tried two more times before I got to the building’s garage and started the car.
On the way home, I passed the police station on Rua Hilário de Gouveia, a few blocks from our apartment.
I thought about stopping and putting an end to it all.
I had the location of the highway patrol station and the audio recording as evidence.
That would be enough to open an investigation, right?
But I couldn’t do it alone. I decided I’d tell my friends what I’d seen and we’d come up with a plan together.
I got home just before ten. Weak and devastated, I stepped out of the elevator and turned the key. As soon as I crossed the threshold, Cora came running toward me, weeping, disheveled. Piglet and Hugo were sprawled on the sofa, looking feverish, their eyes also wet. I’d never seen Hugo cry.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
Piglet just looked at me, his eyes full of pain.
“The police just called. Miguel is dead.”