Chapter Four: The Lie
The news broke before sunrise.
A calm voice. Clean fonts. Polite words.
A tragic altercation occurred late last night at a prominent hotel…
In the hospital room, the television murmured softly, mounted too high on the wall, like it didn't belong among the beeping machines and white sheets. Nurses moved in and out without looking at the screen.
Their mother lay on the bed, smaller than they remembered. Tubes ran from her arms. Her hair was loose against the pillow.
She stirred.
Her eyes opened slowly.
Then she saw them.
All five.
Her breath caught.
"Oh…" she whispered.
Her hands trembled as she tried to lift them. Tears came instantly.
"My children," she cried softly. "Why are you all here?"
No one answered.
The youngest daughter rushed forward and took her hand. One brother turned away, jaw clenched. Another stood rigid, eyes lowered. The fourth swallowed hard.
The eldest stood at the foot of the bed.
Behind him, the television continued.
"…authorities report no evidence of assault…"
The eldest reached up and turned it off.
Silence.
They didn't tell her at first.
They couldn't.
The nurse returned. The curtains were pulled wider. Another bed was rolled in.
White cloth.
Too still.
Her eyes followed it.
"No," she whispered.
She pushed herself up despite the wires.
"Why is he sleeping here?"
No one answered.
Her gaze fell to his hands.
Bruised. Swollen.
Not the hands she knew.
A sound tore out of her chest. She pressed her forehead to his chest, sobbing openly.
"You promised," she cried. "You promised you'd come back."
When her sobs slowed, she lifted her head.
Her eyes were no longer lost.
They were burning.
She looked at her husband's face.
Then she spoke.
"In front of you," she said softly, "I swear this."
The room went still.
"After you find peace," she continued, her voice terrifyingly calm,
"I want every person who did this to you."
She touched his bruised hand.
"Every hand that struck you. Every voice that threatened help away."
She turned slightly, enough for her children to hear.
"I want their heads lowered the way yours was.
I want their lives emptied the way yours was."
Her breath steadied.
"I want to color the river of Panama red with their blood."
Silence swallowed the room.
"You will wait," she said. "Until his soul has peace."
Her eyes settled on the eldest.
He bowed his head.
Day One — Antyeshti
The house filled before dawn.
Relatives arrived dressed in white. Incense burned constantly. Steel vessels were placed on the floor.
The body was brought home.
Their father lay on the floor, wrapped in clean white cloth, a sandalwood mark on his forehead. Flowers were placed gently over his chest.
The eldest knelt first.
Then the others followed.
Their mother stood behind them, silent, her hands folded.
Mantras began softly.
The air was heavy with smoke and grief.
Then—
Footsteps.
Slow. Measured.
The chanting faltered.
The front door opened.
Several men entered, dressed in dark, pressed clothes—wrong among the white, wrong among the mourning.
They walked forward without asking.
Without bowing.
Without removing their shoes.
They stopped.
Right in front of the body.
Blocking the view.
Blocking the prayers.
Blocking peace.
The eldest rose slowly to his feet.
His eyes met theirs.
No one spoke.
The incense continued to burn.
And beside the body of their father, the first line was drawn.