1.

  Daros turned the headlight button on and off several times, watching the reflection in the Jeep's rearview mirror. The driver soon noticed and reduced speed, allowing the silver car to pass her. Daros left BR-101, entering SC-441 toward Jaguaruna.

  Shortly before reaching the city limit, he spotted what he was looking for: a dirt road that seemed to lead nowhere. He closed the window a bit too late: the taste of sand had already reached his tongue. He guided the car for about half a mile before stopping. He got out of the vehicle and stretched his muscles by raising his arms above his head, observing the environment. It was a perfect place—no cameras, no curious eyes, no life beyond the low vegetation. The woods were untouched there, revealing they hadn't yet attracted residents. It wasn't surprising. There were only a few light poles installed here and there.

  A dust cloud on the horizon announced the Jeep's approach. While waiting for the vehicle to get closer, Daros tried to decipher that woman. Part of him was satisfied with the lamblike way she cooperated with his plan. It made things easier, making execution smooth.

  But a shadow was growing inside him, unsettled by that docility. The way she accepted orders, how she followed instructions without questioning, how she surrendered without contestation to an authority figure... All of it worried him. It was the kind of behavior that would make her easy prey for anyone with bad intentions.

  The volume of dust grew over time, and with it the certainty that he needed to make Greta understand that blindly trusting everyone was as dangerous as trusting no one.

  The Jeep reached the HB20 and parked a few yards ahead. The occupant remained behind the wheel, motionless, waiting. Daros approached the vehicle with the confidence of a highway patrolman about to issue a ticket.

  He leaned toward the driver's window. He assessed her face for a while, thinking about how the bruise had improved. Or maybe it was the makeup. Or he might simply be getting used to that detail. Despite the injury, the woman seemed more luminous for some reason. Well, no longer being chained to a bed in a stranger's house must count as an excellent reason.

  "Here we part ways until tonight. Is that okay with you?"

  She confirmed with her head. He nodded.

  "I'll continue to Florianópolis on BR-101 and return the car to the dealership. Things will get safer for you now, following the state highway. Most of the traffic around here is local residents. Or goods delivery vehicles, that sort of thing."

  She didn't look away from him, and yet her expression was impenetrable. Daros waited for some manifestation before continuing. The woman remained silent.

  "Go straight to the cabin, without stopping anywhere. If you need anything, text my phone. I can buy it before meeting you in Imbituba. Even pads or something."

  This time she reacted, though with hesitation.

  "No, it wasn't menstruation. It was just a... reaction to stress."

  That was weird. Even being married, her discomfort talking about intimate matters was evident. Daros imagined Greta's husband hadn't earned the position of her confidant. He pressed his lips together, frustrated. Then he looked away to the ground, embarrassed by the tension he'd caused.

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  "Sorry about that."

  Greta shrugged, as if it no longer mattered. She opened her purse, looking for her wallet.

  "Here. I have money for..."

  "No," he interrupted her with a gesture. "Think of it as compensation for false imprisonment."

  He didn't smile when saying this. What he'd done to her wasn't funny. He opened his mouth to say something else and gave up. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, unable to face her any longer, and returned with slow steps to the HB20. Starting the engine, he turned around and took the way back to 101. He soon became a dust cloud just like the one he'd seen arrive moments before.

  2

  Greta watched the man maneuvering to leave through the rearview mirror. Something about him was different during the brief communication through the window. Or maybe it was just the first time she really saw him, instead of concentrating on calculating the danger he posed.

  He was handsome, with that air of '60s rock stars, those who died too young. An air that could be both defiance and indifference. And more athletic than a rock star, for sure. But he shared with those young stars the same sadness in his gaze, that loneliness of someone born in the wrong era who carries the cross of a certainty. The certainty that he won't live long enough to reach the era to which he truly belongs, a point much further ahead in time.

  Greta felt guilty. She'd been punishing him with measured, cold answers, incisive as a scalpel. Since their reunion at the restaurant, she hadn't made a point of being kind. Partly, it was because she still feared his presence, from the insecurity of not knowing what to expect from his company. But part was also revenge. Revenge not only on him, but on all people like him. People who made her feel smaller, more fragile and insignificant.

  It was only when the road dust settled back on the ground that she turned the key and followed the path to Jaguaruna. She decided it wasn't the time to feel unfounded guilt. He'd cultivated her hostility. Even if he'd changed, he'd have to reap—even if just for a little while—the bitter fruit he himself had planted.

  Still, she was taken by a feeling of vulnerability. It was hard to swallow, but the truth was that seeing his car in the rearview mirror filled her with security.

  3

  Pablo got out of the Civic to stretch his aching legs. He'd followed drug dealers, politicians, and even thieving pastors. But that spoiled little woman had been the most unpredictable mission. In Torres, she'd thrown him off with such skill that he'd come to think he'd been discovered.

  And that way of driving... He'd never imagined a woman could drive in that manic way, as if she'd learned to drive in the globe of death of some clandestine circus. It didn't make sense. Nothing in that pursuit made sense.

  And then, out of nowhere, she reappeared on the radar, as if she'd fallen from a ship after being abducted. Almost as if she enjoyed the cat-and-mouse game between them. But no. Pablo realized he'd overestimated the woman. She didn't even know she was being followed, to begin with. Those crazy maneuvers behind the wheel had been nothing but coincidence. Some kind of female outburst, who knows. PMS, menopause, drama of a poor rich woman. All the same thing.

  In the end, the target was exactly what he'd initially thought: just another bored rich lady who couldn't even take a few slaps from her husband now and then. His contempt grew as he considered the situation. As if the queen's life she led didn't compensate for some punishments from time to time.

  Now that motel. From Torres to there wasn't even sixty miles. What was the need for a nap? Sure, she seemed weak, but that fussiness was too much even for the standards of a pampered creature like her. And why leave the car in the middle of nowhere and walk there? Did the little lady think she was too special to have her plate photographed by a roadside motel?

  Pablo had been hired only to follow her to the final destination. Once there, he hoped the orders would change. He was sick and tired of being that bitch's babysitter. With luck, soon she'd arrive at some more definitive place, where he'd receive the green light to start the game that really interested him, where he could stop playing hide-and-seek and start the fun part: making her pay. That's what happens when someone messes with the wrong hornet's nest.