Verónica Villa stared at the house block where her house had once stood. She still couldn't believe it had happened, despite that she was standing on her street, in front of the charred remains of her house, looking right at it.
It was gone!
She closed her eyes. When she opened them, it was the same as it had been the last four times she'd tried the same thing: charred, burned, a ruin. That would not change, she knew, but it was still unbelievable to her.
A nice neighbourhood, she reminded herself. She'd wholly thought herself living in a decent, respectable neighbourhood.
Then came Alicia Oviedo's suicide; then came her house burning down.
Oh, yes, a nice neighbourhood, she thought sarcastically, scathing inside. A breeze ran across her arms, making her rub them with her hands.
What would it be next? she wondered. Would she turn away now, and, from out of nowhere, a car would veer from its course and strike her.
She suppressed a hoarse laugh.
Still, she thought, it is a nice neighbourhood, despite these things. Nice to look at, lots of rich people living here.
She would stay, she decided.
She would rebuild her house and it would be as though none of the unpleasantries of the last few days had ever happened.
Except for Alicia Oviedo, she thought. But the silly woman had brought that on herself; she had committed the act herself. How silly, she thought.