Chapter 7
The kitchen was empty. Some of the dishes had already been washed and were on the drying rack.
Hugo had silently escaped to his room. His message was clear: I don’t want to talk about the body, leave me alone.
My head was a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts, and I didn’t know how to proceed.
I left the rest of the dirty dishes in the sink.
I can see now what a horrible thing we started that night.
And I understand how such monstrosity was never going to end well.
Distance and time allow you to see the facts more clearly.
But back then, I didn’t consider myself an asshole; I wasn’t some cruel bastard who woke up plotting evil.
I always helped blind people cross the street, I donated to a charity for sick kids, I liked to share videos of cute animals on TikTok.
I refused to give out any cash, but I’d buy a sandwich for somebody who was hungry.
I liked Carnival parades, toasting on New Year’s Eve, and having sex.
I was exactly like you, exactly like anybody else. I just wanted to be happy.
With everything I’ve already told you, I’m sure you’re judging me.
You must be relieved, thinking to yourself: I would never do what he did, this guy is a psychopath.
I’m your thermometer of criminality, your mirror of morbidity, your compass of madness.
But the truth is, if you were in my shoes, you’d have done the same.
It’s easy to condemn someone, divert the blame, fabricate theories, and accuse the guilty party.
But I’ll say it again: You would have done exactly the same.
I had the urge to get up, but this time laziness won.
I thought about the guests that evening, about the couple looking at each other in fear, about Albertina with her cheeks puffed out, about Umberto with his gun on the table and Ataíde with his foodie tales from around the world.
I thought about the man on the table, sliced into prime steaks, served with a vodka, citrus, and green apple reduction.
We didn’t even know his name. I went to the back door and called the service elevator.
I hesitated a few seconds before pressing the garage button. I knew there was no going back.
There was only one light on in the garage. The time on my watch showed half past three. Turning on the flashlight on my phone, I walked between the parked cars. I could hear my heart beating. Bukowski was parked in the back. Hugo had parked it facing the wall. Usually he backed into the space.
At that moment, I knew my suspicions were correct.
But still, I needed to see. I squeezed between the vehicles, my tuxedo pants brushing against the filthy metal, until I finally reached the front of the car.
The left headlight was broken and the front panel looked dented.
When I brought the white light of my cell phone closer, I could see traces of blood and pieces of skin stuck to the remaining shards of the headlight. I was overcome by this incredible pain.
Hugo had killed that man.