Page 240 of Ricardo

Her hand moves to the stain on the dress and stops before she touches it.

“I used it,” she says, voice thin.

“I know.”

“My hands kept slipping.”

“I know.”

Her mouth trembles.

She is still in shock, and the sooner she gets out of this dress, the better it'll be.

I cross the room slowly, making sure she sees every movement. I take the clean clothes and place them on the bed in front of her.

“You will feel better once you're out of it.”

Her eyes lift to mine.

I'm not sure she believes it, but it will be one less horror she has to deal with.

I unzip the dress and then leave her to it, thinking she'll be more comfortable if I give her some space.

But I don't go far. I just step on the other side of the curtain and wait.

Fabric rustles.

Her breath catches a couple of times.

I close my hands into fists at my sides and force myself to stay where I am.

When she calls my name, the dress is bundled in her hands.

Held away from her body.

She looks at it with such grief that for a moment I think she may start apologizing again.

I take it from her before she can find another reason to blame herself.

“Ricardo—”

“I have it.”

Her fingers resist for half a second.

Then she lets go.

I fold the dress over the back of the chair near the wall, stained side turned inward. Then I guide her to the narrow couch beneath the window.

“Sit.”

She does.

I sit beside her, close but not crowding her. My hand settles over hers. Her fingers are cold.

For a few seconds, I say nothing.

There are questions tearing through me.