Chapter 4 - What Mariana Was Forced to Sign
“The first baby survived.”
I read the sentence again.
Then again.
My hands were shaking so badly that the paper rattled between my fingers.
Mariana stood beside me, staring at the birth record.
“What does it say?” she whispered.
I couldn't answer.
The name printed at the top belonged to a child born eleven months after our miscarriage.
The mother listed on the document was Mariana.
The father listed was me.
But that was impossible.
We had been told our first baby had died before birth.
We had buried the memory.
We had mourned.
We had tried to move forward.
And now a government birth record was sitting in my hands, claiming that child had lived.
Mariana slowly lowered herself onto the edge of the bed.
“No.”
I looked at her.
“You didn't know?”
She shook her head.
“No.”
“You're sure?”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“Adrián, I would know if I had given birth to a baby.”
I looked at the date.
Then at the child's name.
Then at the red handwriting beneath it.
THE FIRST BABY SURVIVED.
Something inside me cracked.
I remembered the hospital room.
The fluorescent lights.
The doctor refusing to look directly at me.
The nurse telling me there had been complications.
The tiny blanket they had placed over an empty bassinet.
Mariana unconscious.
My mother arriving before I had even called her.
Mauricio handling every document.
At the time, I had been too broken to question anything.
Now every memory felt contaminated.
“Why would there be a birth record?”
“I don't know.”
“Why does it say your name?”
“I don't know.”
“Why does it say mine?”
She covered her mouth.
“I don't know.”
I turned the page over.
There was another document behind it.
A hospital discharge form.
The same hospital.
The same date.
But this time, there was a handwritten note at the bottom.
Mother declined to see infant.
I stared at it.
Mariana suddenly stood.
“I never declined.”
Her voice was stronger.
“I never refused to see my baby.”
I looked at her.
“Then who signed this?”
She stepped closer.
The signature at the bottom wasn't hers.
It was an imitation.
But it was close.
Close enough to fool someone who didn't know her handwriting.
I remembered the forged signature on my authorization.
This was the same method.
Someone had been practicing.
For years.
Mariana touched the page with trembling fingers.
“I remember waking up.”
“When?”
“After the delivery.”
“You were unconscious.”
“I remember waking up for a few minutes.”
“What did you see?”
She closed her eyes.
“A woman.”
“What woman?”
“I don't know.”
“Try.”
“She was wearing blue.”
“A nurse?”
“I thought so.”
“What did she say?”
Mariana swallowed.
“She told me not to cry.”
I felt a chill.
“What else?”
“She said my baby was sick.”
“What kind of sick?”
“She didn't say.”
“And then?”
“She told me to go back to sleep.”
I stared at her.
“Did you see the baby?”
Mariana shook her head.
“No.”
“Did you hear anything?”
Her eyes opened.
“Yes.”
“What?”
“A baby crying.”
The room went silent.
I felt the air leave my lungs.
“You heard our baby?”
She nodded.
“I heard crying.”
“How long?”
“Maybe thirty seconds.”
“Then?”
“The woman closed the curtain.”
“And you woke up later?”
“Yes.”
“With no baby?”
Mariana started crying.
“I thought our baby had died.”
I looked at the birth record again.
Maybe it hadn't.
Maybe someone had taken our child.
I couldn't let myself finish the thought.
The apartment suddenly felt too small.
I walked to the window.
The city lights spread across Guadalajara below us.
People were driving home.
Restaurants were closing.
Families were eating dinner.
Ordinary life was continuing.
Meanwhile, my wife and I were standing inside a nightmare that might have started before we even knew we were in it.
I turned around.
“We need to leave.”
Mariana nodded.
“Hospital?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
I stopped.
“Why?”
“If they controlled the records then, they could control them now.”
She had a point.
But we needed medical care.
She was pregnant, injured, and had been given unknown medication.
“We go somewhere else.”
“Where?”
I thought for a moment.
“My father's old lawyer.”
Mariana frowned.
“Your father had a lawyer?”
“Yes.”
“Does your mother know?”
“No.”
That was why I chose him.
His name was Daniel Rivas.
He had handled my father's estate.
He had refused to work with my mother after my father's death.
At the time, I had never understood why.
Now I remembered one sentence my father had told me.
“If anything ever happens to me, don't let your mother destroy the evidence.”
I had forgotten it.
Until tonight.
I put the documents into my bag.
Mariana tried to stand.
Her knees buckled.
I caught her.
“Easy.”
She winced.
“We can't stay here.”
“I know.”
I wrapped my arm around her.
We reached the bedroom door.
Then I stopped.
The apartment was silent.
Too silent.
“Where did my mother go?”
Mariana looked toward the hallway.
“She left.”
“Without Mauricio?”
“I don't know.”
I checked the security system.
Still offline.
I opened the front door.
The hallway was empty.
No nurse.
No doctor.
No Mauricio.
No mother.
Just the polished marble floor and the faint hum of the elevator.
I helped Mariana toward it.
Then I noticed something on the wall.
A tiny black device.
A camera.
I stared at it.
It hadn't been there yesterday.
I took a picture.
Then another.
Mariana looked at me.
“They're watching us.”
I nodded.
The elevator doors opened.
We stepped inside.
I pressed the lobby button.
The doors began closing.
Just before they met, I saw a man standing at the far end of the hallway.
Dark suit.
Black folder.
Watching us.
I recognized him.
Mauricio.
But he wasn't alone.
A woman stood beside him.
White medical uniform.
Dark hair.
A black medical case.
Marta Salgado.
The nurse.
She looked directly at Mariana.
Then she smiled.
The elevator doors closed.
Mariana whispered:
“That's her.”
I held her tighter.
The elevator descended.
My phone vibrated.
A message from an unknown number.
YOU SHOULD NOT HAVE OPENED THE FILE.
Another message appeared.
NOW SHE KNOWS YOU KNOW.
I typed:
Who are you?
The response came immediately.
ASK YOUR MOTHER WHAT HAPPENED TO THE BABY.
I stared at the screen.
Then another message arrived.
ASK HER WHO SIGNED THE DEATH CERTIFICATE.
I felt Mariana's fingers tighten around mine.
“What's wrong?”
I showed her.
She read the message.
Her face went pale.
“There was a death certificate?”
“I don't know.”
“But if there was…”
“We'll find it.”
The elevator stopped.
The doors opened.
The lobby was empty.
No security guard.
No receptionist.
The main entrance was locked.
I pressed the release button.
Nothing happened.
I tried again.
Nothing.
I looked at the security panel.
The system was still offline.
Mariana's breathing became faster.
“Adrián.”
“I've got it.”
I grabbed the emergency phone.
Dead.
I looked through the glass doors.
A black SUV was parked outside.
Its engine was running.
Someone was sitting behind the wheel.
I couldn't see the face.
Then the headlights flashed twice.
A signal.
My phone vibrated again.
DON'T LEAVE THROUGH THE FRONT DOOR.
I stared at the message.
A second one arrived.
THEY'RE WAITING FOR YOU OUTSIDE.
Mariana looked at me.
“Who is sending these?”
“I don't know.”
“Can we trust them?”
“No.”
“Then what do we do?”
I looked toward the service corridor.
There was a door marked STAFF ONLY.
I pulled it open.
A narrow hallway stretched behind it.
“We go that way.”
We moved slowly.
Mariana leaned heavily against me.
Every few steps, she winced.
I wanted to call the hospital again.
But every time I reached for my phone, I remembered the forged records.
I didn't know who to trust.
At the end of the corridor, we found another elevator.
I pressed the button.
Nothing happened.
Then I heard footsteps behind us.
Slow.
Measured.
Coming closer.
I turned.
No one.
The footsteps stopped.
Mariana whispered:
“Adrián.”
“What?”
She pointed at the wall.
A small red light was blinking.
Another camera.
I stepped toward it.
Then the speaker beside it crackled.
A woman's voice came through.
“You should have stayed upstairs.”
I froze.
Mariana grabbed my arm.
The voice continued.
“You were never supposed to find the birth record.”
I stared at the speaker.
“Who are you?”
A pause.
Then:
“Someone who knows what happened to your first child.”
The line went dead.
I felt Mariana trembling.
I pulled her closer.
“Whoever that is, they know.”
She shook her head.
“No.”
“What?”
“They don't just know.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“They were there.”
The footsteps started again.
This time they were closer.
I turned toward the corridor.
A shadow appeared beneath the door at the far end.
Someone was standing on the other side.
I reached for the handle.
Mariana whispered:
“Don't.”
The shadow moved.
A key entered the lock.
Slowly.
I pulled Mariana behind me.
The handle began to turn.
Then a voice came through the door.
A voice I knew better than anyone.
My mother's.
“Adrián, open the door.”
I stared at the handle.
It turned once.
Then stopped.
May you like
And from the other side, my mother whispered a name I had not heard in eight years—
“Daniel.”
