The Autopsy of Us

They never found the body of the first and only boy who broke my heart. And they never will.
Thirteen years ago, Antonio Morales handed me a pencil and told me to stay sharp. I did. I stayed sharp enough to build a life with him, and sharp enough to survive the one he chose.
Now, Antonio is missing.
The detectives see a grieving mother. They see a "good girl" from Anaheim who stayed too long and lost everything. They are looking for him in the streets, among the ghosts of a violent night in June. They don't think to look at me.
But the neighborhood isn't as easy to fool.
Antonio's friends are lingering in my doorway, watching for a crack in my mask. When they tell me to "Ponte trucha", they aren't being kind. They're waiting for me to slip.
I'm the only one who knows where he is. I'm the only one who knows what happened last weekend in the dark. But as the investigation tightens and the paranoia sets in, I'm starting to realize that burying the man was the easy part.