The next morning, while Rodrigo slept off his hangover, Ana filed a protective order. Joana took Clara to a safe house—a pastel-yellow building hidden in the hills of Santa Teresa, filled with other women who had stories like hers. Women with hollow eyes and trembling hands who slowly, over weeks, began to laugh again.
"Ana," Margarida said into the phone. "It’s happened again. Another one."
Clara’s eyes welled up. "He loves me."
