OLIVER
“Your wife is pregnant, Oliver. And she asked me to make the baby disappear before you found out.”
“No.”
The answer comes before I look at the screenshots.
Roberta’s voice remains calm through the speaker. “You wanted the truth.”
“I wanted a paternity test. Not another performance.”
My phone displays five messages from a number saved as Anny’s. The first asks Roberta for the name of a discreet clinic. The second says the pregnancy cannot continue. The last includes the words before Oliver finds out.
Each message carries a timestamp from that morning.
“Anny would never ask you for help,” I say.
“She asked the only woman who knows what your families do when a pregnancy becomes inconvenient.”
An appointment confirmation appears beneath the messages. It lists Clínica Santa
