Star approached cautiously. The door to Maria's room was half open. Voices drifted out. She stopped and listened.
"Don't say! What's the plan?" Maria asked, intrigued.
"It's simple," Romero's voice crackled over the phone. "That gun Star's hiding? It has a tracker."
"A tracker?" Maria gasped.
"Yes. I already reported it missing to the police. Very soon, I'll come knocking—with them."
"They'll trace it… to Star's room," Maria said, piecing it together.
"Exactly. And in front of everyone—including your beloved son—she'll be exposed. Her fingerprints, her silence, the fact that she was hiding it? Game over. No one will feel safe with her around."
"Brilliant. I didn't think it'd happen this soon," Maria whispered with a smirk.
"And since she's pregnant," Romero continued, "she won't go to jail—but she sure as hell won't stay under your roof."
"She has no proof for anything. No one will believe her," Maria said.
"Just be ready." The call ended.
"God is already blessing me this Sunday," Maria smirked."Thank you, Father. I know You'll fulfill it."
"God forbid it," Star muttered under her breath.
Heart pounding, she tiptoed to the upstairs bathroom. In the quiet, she wiped the gun thoroughly with toilet paper and wrapped it up. She waited. Watched.
When Maria finally entered the bathroom to brush her teeth, Star darted into the bedroom, headed for the closet, and stuffed the gun deep inside one of Maria's winter jackets.
She slipped out unseen and made her way to the backyard—masking her fear, masking her fury.