The situation in Las Almas has nevertheless left a significant imprint on certain things. And at the moment, it wasn't about relationships between colleagues, but about court proceedings. And how "lucky" you were when one of the main culprits of this "celebration" in the courtroom was your own husband.

To be honest, sometimes you didn't want to know what Phillip was really doing. Let it stay at his job. You don't even want to look at the documents scattered on the desktop of your home office. Let it all be his secret, let it be on his conscience.

Don't let his dear Mrs. Graves know how cruelly he massacred Mexicans on their own soil.

Don't let her know that he's an asshole, that he's a traitor.

Let her sit on a chair next to Laswell, nervously clutching the fabric of a long black Gucci skirt on her lap, which he bought last Saturday for her bright smile. Let her heart start beating faster with each question from the judge and with each answer.

But Phillip comes out of the courtroom like a winner. Thin lips stretch into a flawless smile, forming dimples on perfectly shaven smooth cheeks when he sees you standing at the doorway with tears in your eyes and mascara running down your red cheeks.

"Mrs. Graves," he chuckles softly, spreading his arms wide, waiting for you to run up to him. "Don't you want to hug your husband after he's had a chance to go to jail?"