The first time people came looking for Bambi, Mateo made sure they left ashamed.
They stood in the doorway with flowers already wilting in their hands, voices trembling with rehearsed concern. Club members. Friends. People who spoke Jade's name softly now, like it had only just begun to hurt.
Mateo didn't raise his voice.
"You want to show concern?" he asked evenly. "Now?"
They exchanged looks. Someone tried to explain—said grief was complicated, said no one knew how bad it had been.
Mateo smiled thinly.
"If you'd shown up when she was asking for help," he said, "we wouldn't have buried her."
The words landed heavy. Final.
"What good is a club that neglects its own when they're breaking?" he added. "What good are any of you?"
No one had an answer.
The door closed.
It didn't open again.
That was the story Mateo repeated whenever anyone asked why the house grew quieter. Why calls stopped. Why invitations disappeared.
"They failed her," he told Bambi. "I won't."
He said it like a vow.
At first, Bambi still asked questions. Where people had gone. Why no one came around anymore. Mateo always had an answer ready—gentle, reasonable, comforting.
"They don't know how to help you," he said.
"They make it worse."
"They feel guilty. That's why they stay away."
Eventually, she stopped asking.
He took over slowly. So slowly she didn't notice.
Money first. Then schedules. Then decisions. When she forgot something, he reminded her with a smile. When she contradicted herself, he corrected her kindly.
"You're grieving," he said. "It's normal."
Dependence didn't feel like a cage.
It felt like relief.
Every year, on the same date, Bambi held a memorial for Jade.
The first one was crowded. Candles burned low. Voices cracked as they spoke memories aloud. Jade felt close then—present in the shared ache.
Mateo stayed for ten minutes.
"Work," he said, kissing Bambi's forehead. "I'll be back."
He never returned.
The second year, fewer people came. Mateo didn't bother pretending.
By the third, Bambi stopped expecting him.
By the fifth, the memorial was just her, a single candle, and a bottle of cheap alcohol that burned her throat raw.
That night, every year, the nightmares came.
They arrived on schedule, like punishment.
At first, Jade screamed in them—trapped, reaching, calling Bambi's name.
Later, she went quiet.
She just stood there, watching Bambi with something worse than anger. Something disappointed. Something accusing.
Bambi woke drenched in sweat, heart racing, hands shaking as she reached for the bottle. She drank until the edges softened, until the guilt dulled enough to breathe.
Commercial sex became routine.
It paid the bills. Paid for food. Paid for Mateo's cigarettes and his patience.
"I hate that you have to do this," Mateo said once, not looking at her. "But I won't abandon you."
So she kept going.
Clients blurred together. Faces faded. Names meant nothing. She learned how to leave herself behind when she needed to.
By the fifth year, time began slipping.
She woke sore. Bruised. Sometimes bleeding lightly where she didn't remember being touched. Money lay folded neatly on the dresser.
Mateo was always awake.
Always calm.
"You were upset," he'd say. "I handled it."
She wanted to ask what that meant.
She never did.
On the fifth anniversary, the nightmares were unbearable.
She drank earlier than usual. Faster. Her hands shook as she lit the candle. Her tears soaked the carpet.
She searched for aspirin and opened the wrong drawer.
Inside was Mateo's phone.
Unlocked.
A message thread glowed on the screen.
The name at the top punched the air from her lungs.
Lucas.
She knew that name.
She'd spent years trying not to.
The messages weren't new.
They stretched back months. Years.
She's still unstable.
Keep her close.
She's asking questions again.
We handled it once. We'll handle it.
Bambi dropped the phone.
Mateo stood in the doorway.
Their eyes locked.
"You're still talking to him," she whispered.
Mateo didn't rush to explain.
"You lied," she said, louder now. "You stood there and told me everyone else failed her—but it was you."
She laughed, a sound ripped from somewhere broken. She grabbed the bottle and hurled it. Glass exploded against the wall. She shoved over a chair. Her hands shook violently as she screamed.
"You let them take her!"
Mateo reached for her arm.
"Don't touch me," she cried.
She ran.
Out the door. Down the steps. The night swallowed her whole.
The cold hit her like a slap.
Her foot slipped.
Headlights flared white and blinding—
A sound—metal screaming—
Then—
Darkness.
Total.
Immediate.
As if the world had decided she'd seen enough.
Somewhere behind her, Mateo stood frozen, phone vibrating in his hand.
And Lucas's last message glowed unanswered on the screen.