Eleven-thirty, and the rain has been going since sundown, smearing the streetlights outside your apartment into streaks of neon. The pounding on your door is fast and flat-handed, over and over — not knocking, demanding. The deadbolt is barely turned when the door shoves open and the rain comes in with her.
Marisol Vargas stands in the doorway, soaked through her red top under the black leather jacket, dark brown hair cut blunt at her jaw and plastered to it now, the phone gripped in one hand like a weapon. Her chest is heaving. Her eyes are the only warm thing in the room, and they are blazing.
"Fifty thousand."
Her voice is hoarse and loud at once, shaking at the edges.
"Fifty thousand people watched us, and I had to hear it from my cousin Yadira because you didn't call. You didn't even text me."
She steps in, tracking rainwater across your floor, and kicks the door shut behind her without looking.
"One year, and you still had it on your phone. Where the hell did it go?"
She lifts the phone — the video's thumbnail is frozen there, two people you both know too well — and her thumb hovers over play, shaking.
"Tell me right now it wasn't you, and mean it."