"Who is Charlotte Moreau, tito Anton?"
On my screen, Tito Anton adjusted his tablet, and for a moment the camera caught him at an unflattering angle. Synthetic strands of hair framed his head too neatly, too perfectly against the light. Behind him hung a large painting of a beach at sunset, the orange and violet hues bleeding into each other like melted candy. It looked calm. Too calm for the question I had just asked.
"Someone who obviously triggered your aunt after reminding her of an unpleasant woman," he replied.
The way he said it, clipped and careful, made it sound like the memory still clung to him. As if a year had not been enough time to scrub it away.
I lowered my gaze and scribbled on my notebook. The scratch of my pen against paper filled the brief silence between us. "Trigger? What do you mean by 'trigger,' tito?"
The word looked harsher once I circled it in red ink. It bled into the fibers of the page, loud and almost violent. I stared at it longer than necessary. Tita Kim had seemed steady to me. Strong-willed. Surrounded by people who treated her kindly because she gave the same kindness back. It was difficult to imagine someone capable of shaking her so deeply. This Moreau girl, whoever she was, sounded selfish already in my mind.
"You may not know because no one really wants to mention it," he began. The screen tilted abruptly, and all I saw were streaks of motion and the edge of his ceiling. He must have been propping the tablet against something. "But ate Kim suffered so much in the past that it took a toll on her mind and body."
My fingers tightened around my pen.
"I want to ask more about the Charlotte girl. Is that all right, tito?" I set the pen down this time, palms suddenly damp against my desk.
"Sure."
"Why was she looking for Tita Kim?" My throat felt dry. I swallowed before meeting his pixelated gaze again. It felt intrusive to ask, like prying open a locked drawer. But curiosity pressed harder than guilt.
He was silent.
The silence stretched long enough for the hum of my electric fan to grow louder in my ears. I could hear distant tricycles outside, a dog barking somewhere down the street. I opened my mouth to apologize.
"Actually, I don't know," he said at last.
"Ha?" I blinked, unsure if I heard him right.
"I let the girl talk to ate Kim in my office because I had a meeting." A faint cracking sound echoed through the speakers. Then another. He was chewing. Peanuts, most likely.
I stared at him. "Wait. So it wasn't a made-up excuse that you had a meeting at that time?"
He chuckled, shoulders shaking. The camera trembled slightly. He tossed another handful of peanuts into his mouth. "Nope."
"And when she went to your office, was it recent?" I leaned forward without realizing it. My elbows pressed into the desk. Even my wandering thoughts stilled. I felt suspended, waiting.
"It was last year." He brushed his hands together, probably to shake off the salt. I imagined the grains sticking to his fingertips, the faint oiliness left behind. "The French girl never appeared in front of me again, but I always felt followed. It was probably her private investigator."
The words settled heavily between us.
Private investigator.
It sounded unreal. Like a line stolen from a late-night drama. I almost expected background music to swell. Yet this was my uncle speaking, casually, between mouthfuls of peanuts and a beach painting glowing behind him. I didn't know whether to laugh or shiver.
.
.
.
"That's what Anton said?"
The sun had already dipped below the rooftops by the time we finished waiting for Tita Kim. The sky outside had turned that deep, muted blue that comes just before night fully settles in. Streetlights flickered one by one, and somewhere in the distance a motorcycle roared past, its sound stretching thin against the evening air. From across the street, warm light spilled from Tita Kim's windows, golden and steady, like her house existed in a different, calmer world.
Yesterday still felt close.
After my second call with Tito Anton, I had gathered the group and told them everything I found out. Every detail. The French girl. The private investigator. The way he said trigger as if it were something fragile and dangerous. Valerie had listened with her chin resting on her palm, her brows slightly furrowed. When I finished, she gave me a small nod. The green light. We move forward tomorrow.
And now tomorrow had arrived.
Valerie's living room felt tighter than usual with all of us squeezed inside. The electric fan hummed in the corner, blowing warm air that carried the faint scent of fabric conditioner from the curtains. Our notebooks were spread across the coffee table, pages half-filled, pens uncapped. My laptop sat at the center like a stage, its glow lighting up our faces in pale blue.
When Tita Kim finally appeared on the screen, none of us spoke at first.
She adjusted her camera, unaware that several pairs of eyes were peering over my shoulders. Her focus was on me alone, on the familiar comfort of one niece asking questions. Behind me, I could feel my groupmates leaning in, their breathing almost synchronized, their curiosity barely contained.
Tita Kim didn't seem to notice.
Or maybe she did, and chose not to acknowledge it.
Either way, the light from her window framed her in soft gold, while we sat here in Valerie's dim living room.
"Yes, tita," I answered, nodding. "I feel like he wanted me to ask straight from the source because he didn't know much about it."
The others went quiet.
"But it's okay if you don't want to talk about it," I added gently.
She lifted her mug and blew on the surface of her coffee. Steam curled upward, fogging the lower part of her glasses for a second. I watched her lips hover at the rim before she took a careful sip. The ceramic touched the plate with a small, hollow clink that echoed louder than it should have in the quiet room.
Her eyes lingered on the mug as if it were safer to look at than the camera.
"I can… I can talk about it. But just this once."
Her voice carried a softness that tried to sound firm. She had decided, yes, but her fingers tightened around the mug like she was still reconsidering.
"I won't repeat this again. Understood?"
I nodded quickly and reached for my notepad and pencil case. The zipper rasped open, too loud in my ears. "Copy, tita."
She crossed her arms over her chest and released a long breath. The sound was heavy, weighted with something old. I waited, pen hovering over paper, but she remained still. Her lips were pressed together, gaze drifting somewhere beyond the screen.
"What's this for again?" she asked, not quite meeting my eyes.
I set my notepad down, suddenly aware of how official it must have looked. "For a school project, tita. We'll be writing your biography. Don't worry. We can edit out any parts you don't want included."
"Okay," she exhaled.
There was a pause. A final gathering of courage.
"Then… I will start from when I recently graduated for my pre-med in Manila."
Her shoulders straightened slightly as she began, as if stepping into a version of herself from years ago. And all at once, the room felt smaller, heavier, like we were about to open something that had been sealed for a very long time.