Nanda
Current Days
I could hear the disturbing sound of the siren, broken and coded phrases on the patrol car’s radio feeding the chaotic atmosphere, but it all felt distant—far from me, my life, my reality.
Just yesterday afternoon, I had been staring at the years of my life wasted, wishing I could take them back. Now, I had no idea what lay ahead. In less than twelve hours, my entire world had turned upside down, and I felt completely paralyzed.
I’d already been through so much... paid the price for my father’s poor decisions at the high cost of my own happiness, hurt others in the process. I had lived in this grey world built on appearances, painting a picture of a society addicted to posting smiles on Instagram, only to collapse into bed in tears, hiding the shameful pain—a toxic environment that condemned anything less than perfection.
And now… Roberto was dead, and that was disturbing. All I had wanted was to be free of him, but through divorce—not with a tragedy hanging over us.
My husband was beloved by society, but a monster in our marriage. He wanted to control me, clip my wings, and in the end, that’s exactly what he did. I had no choice. Still, that didn’t give me the right to feel relief over his death—a crime committed in our home, while I was inside.
What had happened?
I tried to recall what had occurred after I finished the Dom Perignon and opened the Pinot, but I couldn’t even remember the Chardonnay I saw on the balcony. The shattered glass, the blood on the bathroom mirror, the stinging cut on my palm. None of it made sense. My memory was a total void, and the persistent headache was haunting me.
The excessive drinking—I had never drunk that much, not to the point of blacking out.
I didn’t know what to think. The uncertainty was tormenting. How had he ended up dead in his office, stabbed? They said he had been stabbed. A man as strong as Roberto could have defended himself easily.
And if, in the face of a crime, one would think nothing could be worse, there I was, alone in the back of a police car, facing another ghost—the figure in the front passenger seat.
What was happening in my life? This was not how I had imagined seeing him again. His coldness was so out of place compared to the flicker of hope that had lit up in my heart the moment I saw him walk into the room. The urge to open myself to him, to show how broken I felt so he could protect and rebuild me.
"Stop the car!" I managed to say. "I need to get out."
I felt the nausea rising inside me. I didn’t know if it was from too much alcohol, the panic, or simply the dawning realization of my situation.
"That’s against protocol," replied Suelen, the woman driving, her voice devoid of emotion.
"I need to get out," I insisted one last time before covering my mouth with my uninjured hand.
"Pull over the vehicle!" I heard Hermes shout, for the first time bothering to actually look at me.
Everything happened very quickly. He jumped out of the car, on the shoulder of the highway, and ran to open the back door, which was probably locked by the security mechanism. I barely managed to take three steps before I fell to my knees on the ground, my stomach churning, retching nothing but a little bitter liquid—my stomach completely empty since the day before.
The sky spun out of sync with the asphalt, already warmed by the morning sun. I breathed in the vehicle fumes from the passing trucks on the nearby lanes, which only made my nausea worse. Weak in both hands and legs, I couldn’t lift myself from the ground.
"Doctor, Doca always carries a bottle of water with him. He left it in the car," I heard Suelen say to Hermes, who stood in front of me, shielding my condition from the curious eyes of drivers speeding past on the highway. Moments later, I felt him approach, but I kept my eyes closed, unable to move.
"It’s a bit warm, but it should help," his voice was cold, strictly professional.
Then he supported me by the waist so I could lift my hands off the ground. First, he poured some water over them to help me clean up, and only after that did he press me to take a sip.
Unable to swallow anything, I simply swished it around in my mouth and spat the warm liquid out, feeling my stomach begin to settle.
Roberto was dead, and Hermes held me in his arms, helping me rise from the hot pavement.
What other trap was life setting for me, besides the memories of us flooding my chest, toying with my sanity, proving that I had never truly been strong enough to resist him?
Why was Roberto dead? Why did it have to be Hermes who showed up at my house? I wasn’t prepared for any of this.
Least of all was I prepared to understand how I felt when Hermes offered me nothing but coldness at the moment I embraced him in that house. I had been caught off guard by seeing him there, face-to-face with me for the first time in so long—the only person I had ever loved, the only one I had ever trusted with my life.
The emotion, the love, the racing heart, the relief—all of it boiling inside me for those few seconds before I gave in to his arms, only to realize a second later that nothing, ever again, would be the same.
And a part of me died right there, in his arms—arms that gave me no warmth in return.
S i x Y e a r s A g o
I loved it when my parents went on long trips and left the house to me. In the Pacaembu area, we lived in a five-hundred-square-meter property with a beautiful green space. It was hard to believe we were so close to downtown.
Every time they left, I would also dismiss the staff so I could enjoy a bit of peace and quiet.
Lying on one of the solid wood reclining lounge chairs by the modest pool, shaded by an umbrella, I took the opportunity to study for my Socio-Environmental Studies exam on Monday—one of the courses in my Architecture program at FAAP.
Although still unsettled by everything that happened with Detective Hermes the previous week, when we were taken to the station, I was finally managing to concentrate on my reading.
Three intense chapters later, I heard the loud chime of the doorbell. It wasn’t common for us to receive visitors on Sundays, so I decided to ignore it—but the ringing became more persistent. Curious, I set the book aside, put on my cover-up, and rushed to the service area, where the security monitor for the front door was located.
A motorcycle, the model unknown to me, was parked at the curb in front of the main gate, and a man in a dark-toned T-shirt and jeans stood beside it.
"No way!"
My heart raced, my mouth went dry, and a chill ran down my body. I took a deep breath and looked again. Hermes! What was he doing at my house? He wasn’t in uniform, though today’s T-shirt was also black.
"Detective?" I asked through the intercom and saw him approach the speaker to respond.
"Miss Fernanda..." he began, as he pulled something from his jeans pocket, "your necklace. My partner found it on the floor at the bar and forgot to drop it off at the station. When I said I knew whose it was, he gave it to me to return." He raised a clear plastic pouch, and I saw it.
"Please come in," I said, unlocking the gate with the remote.
"I... uh..." he tried to reply, but with the door already open in front of him, he simply put the pouch back in his pocket and stepped through the gate, closing it behind him.
I went back to the pool area, circled the back garden, and made my way to a side entrance that led to the garage where Hermes was, through a small transitional area that avoided going through the house interior.
"Come on," I said as I spotted him from across the way. He walked through the garage toward the side gate where I waited.
I stepped back a little so he could pass through. When we stood face to face—perhaps both of us a bit frozen—I saw his gaze travel down my body. Only then did I remember I was wearing a suede bikini under a white crochet cover-up.
His intense brown eyes darkened as his pupils dilated, but he didn’t dare take another step toward me.
"I thought you’d like to have it back," he broke the silence, pulling the sealed pouch with my necklace from his pocket again. "I got your contact info from the police report, but I think you gave the wrong phone number. I called, and it seemed like it didn’t exist. Since I have the day off today, I decided to try in person."
"That’s strange. Did I really give the wrong number?" I laughed, trying to ease the tension. "I guess I was a little out of it. Come on..." I gestured toward the wooden lounge chair by the pool, a few meters away under the umbrella, without taking the necklace from his hand.
"I only came to return—"
"Let me at least offer you something to drink. It’s hot."
"That’s not necessary, thank you," he replied, but still followed me to the deck.
There had to be another reason Hermes was here. I had to believe it wasn’t just to return my necklace. He was a police detective, and he had rung my doorbell wearing civilian clothes.
Or maybe... I wasn’t crazy. He was the guy who had silently flirted with me through those discreet glances in the rearview mirror. The one who had let me call him Hermes instead of Detective.
"Make yourself comfortable," I simply said, pointing to one of the upright chairs, and turned my back to him, facing the pool. I slowly removed my cover-up, tossed it over my architecture book, and dove in, not looking at him once.
I crossed the pool with strong strokes—I was an excellent swimmer—and on the other side, I looked in his direction. He stood exactly as I’d left him, just like I remembered him at the bar: overly upright posture, arms behind his back, legs spread slightly and planted on the ground like a sentry.
"Aren’t you coming in?" I asked, holding onto the edge in the deep end, letting my body adjust to the cool water, still untouched by the morning sun.
"I didn’t bring swimwear..." It was the first time I saw him laugh without the weight of his badge, which I was sure he carried in one of his pockets.
"And you care about that?" I was a proper girl—but that didn’t mean I was innocent. "It’s fine, I can join you..."
I’m not sure he understood exactly what I meant, but I simply reached behind me, untied the knot of my
bikini top, and tossed it toward him.
