The Mask
RONNY’S POV
The words had already left my mouth, sharp and cutting, and I didn’t regret them.
Not even when I saw the way Erika froze.
Her face went pale, her lips parted like she couldn’t quite process what I’d said. For a second, I thought she might actually faint right there in the hospital room doorway.
“I’m just saying,” I continued, my voice low but steady, the steel beneath it impossible to miss. “She left your house last night. That was the last place she was all day. So how the hell did her brakes get tampered with between the time she was there and the time of the accident?”
The silence that followed was deafening.
Her chest rose and fell too quickly, like she’d just sprinted across a battlefield and didn’t know how to catch her breath. Her eyes darted to Liliana’s sleeping form and then back to me, wide and wounded.
“Are you… are you trying to say I had something to do with it?” she whispered, her voice trembling.
I didn’t blink. Didn’t soften. I let the weight of my stare pin her where she stood.
“Did you?”
The words landed like gunfire between us.
Her entire body jolted, as if I’d struck her. For half a heartbeat, I swore I saw something flicker across her face—something raw, unguarded, dangerous. But it vanished just as quickly, hidden behind outrage and tears that filled her eyes.
“How dare you,” she hissed, her voice breaking. “How dare you throw such accusations at me! Liliana is my best friend. Do you think I would ever—ever—do anything to hurt her?”
Her voice cracked on the last word, tears spilling down her cheeks unchecked. She shook her head violently, like she could fling away the venom of my suspicion.
“The real villain is still out there,” she choked out, jabbing a finger toward the hospital window as though the culprit were watching us from the street below. “And you’re standing here, accusing me of trying to kill my best friend—my best friend! How dare you.”
Her words echoed through the room, bouncing off sterile white walls and searing straight into the space between us.
I didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. My face was stone, my heart iron. Her tears didn’t move me—not the way she wanted them to.
Because tears could be truth.
But tears could also be masks.
I’d seen men cry with knives hidden behind their backs. I’d seen women sob while blood still dripped from their hands. I wasn’t about to be fooled by saltwater and shaking shoulders.
Erika’s hands balled into fists at her sides, trembling. Her eyes—red, wet, blazing—burned holes into me.
“I don’t know why you’d say something like that,” she said, her voice sharper now, steel cutting through the fragility. “But just for the record, Ronny, I would never do anything to hurt Liliana. Never. She is the closest thing I have to family, and I will protect her until my last breath.”
She dragged her sleeve across her cheeks, smearing the wetness but not caring about the mess it left. Her voice dropped to a hiss, dangerous in its quiet. “I’m not the one you’re looking for.”
Her gaze flicked once more to the bed. To Liliana.
I followed it, my throat tightening at the sight of her—still, fragile, unknowing.
Erika’s expression shifted then, just slightly. Something softer. Something almost mournful. Her lips parted like she wanted to say more, to confess, to plead. But then, just as quickly, the moment shattered. She snapped her mouth shut, spun on her heel, and strode toward the door.
The air stirred in her wake, the sound of her boots sharp against the sterile floor.
She paused only once, her back still to me, shoulders stiff and heaving.
And then she was gone.
The door clicked shut with finality, the sound reverberating through the room like a gunshot.
I stood there for a long time, unmoving, staring at the empty space she’d left behind.
My heart thudded hard, deliberate, like a drum echoing in a cavern. My jaw ached from clenching it too tight.
Because here was the truth: I didn’t know.
I didn’t know if she was guilty. If she was innocent. If her tears were real, or just another mask.
What I did know was this—right now, I couldn’t point my finger at anyone. Not at Erika. Not at the strangers lurking in the shadows. Not at the faceless monster who’d taken Liliana’s mother from her.
Not yet.
And that ignorance—it was going to kill me.
I turned back toward the bed. Liliana lay there, her breathing soft, steady, a faint anchor in the storm of my thoughts. I moved to her side again, lowering myself back into the chair, my hand finding hers almost instinctively.
Her skin was warm beneath my palm, fragile but alive.
That was all that mattered. For now.
But as I sat there, staring at her sleeping face, Erika’s words replayed in my mind over and over. The way her voice had cracked. The way her tears had burned. The way her eyes had flicked to Liliana like a woman holding a secret too heavy to bear.
Guilt. Or grief. Or both.
The line between the two was razor-thin.
And until I found the truth, every single person around Liliana was a suspect. Even the ones who claimed to love her most.
Even her best friend.
The room grew quiet again, save for the steady beeping of the heart monitor and the faint hum of fluorescent lights above. Outside, the world kept spinning—nurses rushing down hallways, voices calling orders, lives moving forward. But here, time felt trapped. Suspended. Waiting.
And so was I.
Waiting for Liliana to wake again.
Waiting for the pieces to fall into place.
Waiting for the mask to slip—whoever was wearing it.
But the only thing I knew with absolute certainty was this:
Whoever had tried to kill her hadn’t succeeded.
And the next time they came, I’d be ready.
Even if it was Erika.
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