By the next morning, Cristian had already decided to decline Faustino's request to meet with Isaac in person. He couldn't face the man, not after what he'd done the night before. And then there's Isaac's message.
Cristian took a cup, filled it with coffee, and drank it black. He rested against the counter, his gaze fixed on the tiled floor. The cup warming his palm, and he absentmindedly brought it to his lips, drinking another sip of the hot, bitter liquid.
Back in the bedroom, the mobile phone sat silently on the bedside table, still carrying the voice mail message that should have been deleted the night before—before he listened to it. But, of course, after that. But it was still there, buried away among a slew of old messages from Ashly, Faustino, and even one or two from his parents
