Chapter 8 - The Night They Tried to Take My Baby
The woman on the screen was my mother.
She stood in a hospital room eight years earlier, holding a newborn wrapped in a white blanket.
Our daughter.
I couldn't breathe.
Mariana pressed both hands over her mouth.
“That’s her.”
The recording continued.
My mother looked younger, but there was no mistaking her.
She was holding the baby carefully.
Almost tenderly.
Behind her stood Dr. Esteban Herrera.
And beside him was Mauricio.
My cousin looked barely thirty.
He was holding a folder.
I stared at the screen.
“Why were they there?”
No one answered.
The video showed my mother turning toward the camera.
Her lips moved.
The sound was missing.
Then the picture froze.
A timestamp appeared in the corner.
02:14 A.M.
The same night our daughter was supposedly declared dead.
I pressed the keyboard.
The video restarted.
This time, sound returned.
My mother's voice filled the room.
“She cannot stay here.”
Dr. Herrera answered.
“Then we need to move her before morning.”
Mauricio asked:
“And the parents?”
My mother looked toward the baby.
“They will be told she died.”
Mariana made a broken sound beside me.
I turned toward her.
She was shaking.
The recording continued.
Dr. Herrera lowered his voice.
“Are you certain?”
My mother nodded.
“They'll never know.”
I stared at the screen.
My own mother had stood beside our newborn daughter and planned to tell us she was dead.
The video suddenly ended.
I hit the keyboard.
Nothing.
The screen went black.
“No.”
I tried to restart it.
The computer displayed:
FILE DELETED.
I looked at my mother.
“You knew.”
She didn't answer.
“You watched this happen.”
“I was there.”
“You lied to us.”
“Yes.”
Mariana stepped toward her.
“Why?”
My mother looked at her.
“I was afraid.”
“You were holding my baby.”
“I know.”
“You heard her crying.”
“I know.”
“And you still let them take her.”
My mother closed her eyes.
“I thought I was saving her.”
“From what?”
My mother didn't answer.
I grabbed the chair.
“From what?”
She looked at me.
“Your father.”
I froze.
“My father?”
“Yes.”
“That makes no sense.”
“He was the one they were after.”
“You said the Ortega group was responsible.”
“They were.”
“And my father?”
“He knew too much.”
I shook my head.
“My father tried to protect us.”
“He tried to protect you.”
“What does that mean?”
My mother stared at the floor.
“He made a deal.”
“What deal?”
“With them.”
Mariana stepped forward.
“You sold our daughter because of a business deal?”
“No.”
My mother looked at her.
“Your daughter was never the payment.”
“Then what was she?”
“Insurance.”
The word made my stomach turn.
“Insurance for what?”
My mother hesitated.
“For your father’s silence.”
I stared at her.
She continued.
“Your father discovered that several companies were moving illegal money through the family logistics network.”
I thought about the warehouses.
The shipping routes.
The contracts.
The private clinics.
“Why didn't he go to the police?”
“He tried.”
“And?”
“They threatened you.”
I remembered being twenty-nine.
I had just married Mariana.
My father had been distant.
He had warned me not to travel alone.
I had thought it was business pressure.
Maybe it wasn't.
My mother continued.
“They knew everything about you.”
She looked at Mariana.
“And they knew you were pregnant.”
Mariana's face hardened.
“So they watched me.”
“Yes.”
“From the beginning?”
“Yes.”
“Then why did they wait until the baby was born?”
My mother looked at the photograph on the table.
“Because they wanted something from your father first.”
“What?”
“An access code.”
“To what?”
She didn't answer.
Mauricio finally spoke.
“The family archive.”
I turned toward him.
“What archive?”
“The one your father hid.”
I stared.
“The files in the warehouse?”
“Yes.”
“What's inside?”
“Names.”
“Whose names?”
“Everyone involved.”
I understood.
My father had been collecting evidence.
The Ortega group had wanted the archive destroyed.
My father had refused.
So they took his granddaughter.
I looked at my mother.
“And you helped them.”
“I thought I could get her back.”
“But you didn't.”
“No.”
“Why?”
She looked at Marta.
“Because Marta disappeared with her.”
Marta's expression changed.
“That isn't what happened.”
My mother turned.
“You took the child.”
“I saved her.”
“You stole her.”
“I saved her from you.”
My mother stepped toward her.
“You had no right.”
“You signed the agreement.”
My mother stopped.
Marta's voice shook.
“You handed me the baby.”
Mariana stared at her.
“You?”
Marta nodded.
“I was supposed to deliver her.”
“Where?”
“To Lucía Vargas.”
“Why?”
“Because Lucía was the only person they trusted.”
I frowned.
“Who?”
“The Ortega group.”
Mariana's face hardened.
“And my daughter?”
Marta looked at her.
“I couldn't hand her over.”
Silence.
“What did you do?” I asked.
“I disappeared.”
“You took her.”
“Yes.”
“You raised her?”
“No.”
“Then where did she go?”
Marta looked at the photograph.
“Lucía took her.”
My mother whispered:
“And you let her.”
Marta's eyes filled with tears.
“Because I knew what would happen if I didn't.”
I looked at the computer.
“What happened next?”
Marta hesitated.
“Your father found me.”
“When?”
“Two weeks later.”
“What did he do?”
“He asked me to tell him where the baby was.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because someone was following me.”
I felt a cold knot form in my stomach.
“Who?”
Marta looked toward the door.
“The same people who are looking for you now.”
Suddenly, the lights flickered.
Once.
Twice.
The computer screen turned on by itself.
A new video file appeared.
No title.
No date.
Just one red symbol.
Marta stepped backward.
“No.”
I clicked it.
The screen showed a different room.
A little girl sat at a table.
She was older now.
Eight years old.
The same girl from the photograph.
She was drawing.
Beside her was a woman.
Lucía.
The camera angle was hidden.
I leaned closer.
The little girl looked up.
Her face filled the screen.
My heart stopped.
She had Mariana's eyes.
My father's mouth.
My childhood expression.
She was our daughter.
Mariana reached toward the screen.
“Mia…”
The girl looked directly into the camera.
Then she spoke.
“Mom said I can't tell anyone where I live.”
Mariana began sobbing.
The recording continued.
“But I remember another woman.”
The girl looked down.
“She sang to me.”
Mariana covered her mouth.
The melody.
The four notes.
Our family song.
The girl hummed it.
Mariana collapsed into the chair.
“That’s her.”
I knelt beside my wife.
She was crying uncontrollably.
“I knew it.”
“You knew what?”
“She was alive.”
The video continued.
The girl whispered:
“I think my real mother is looking for me.”
Lucía looked toward the doorway.
“Mia.”
The girl stopped talking.
Lucía approached her.
“You shouldn't say that.”
“Why?”
“Because they might hear you.”
“Who?”
Lucía looked frightened.
“The people who took you.”
The video ended.
I stared at the screen.
Then I looked at Marta.
“Where is Lucía?”
Marta didn't answer.
“Where?”
She finally said:
“She's moving tonight.”
“Where?”
“To a safe house.”
“Give me the address.”
“She won't stay there.”
“Then where?”
Marta reached into her medical bag.
She removed a folded map.
“There is one place she trusts.”
I opened it.
A red circle marked an address.
An old maternity clinic outside the city.
I recognized the name.
Santa Elena.
My stomach tightened.
“That clinic is closed.”
“Not completely.”
Marta looked at Mariana.
“They still use the basement.”
“For what?”
She didn't answer.
My mother suddenly grabbed the map.
“No.”
I pulled it back.
“You know that place.”
“Yes.”
“What happened there?”
She looked at me.
“The final transfer.”
Mariana went pale.
“Our daughter was there?”
“Yes.”
“Is she there now?”
“No.”
“Then why are we going?”
Marta pointed at the map.
“Because Lucía left something there.”
“What?”
“A record.”
“Of what?”
“Everything.”
I folded the map.
“We're going.”
My mother stepped in front of me.
“You can't.”
“Move.”
“If you go there, they'll know you've found her.”
“They already know.”
She shook her head.
“No.”
She looked at Marta.
“They don't know about the archive.”
Marta's expression changed.
“What archive?”
My mother stared at me.
I understood.
There was something else.
Something my mother hadn't told us.
“What archive?”
She said nothing.
I stepped closer.
“What did my father hide?”
My mother whispered:
“The names of the people who paid for the children.”
I froze.
“Children?”
She looked away.
“Not just ours.”
Mariana stared at her.
“How many?”
My mother began crying.
“I don't know.”
Marta closed her eyes.
“I do.”
Everyone turned toward her.
She whispered:
“Seven.”
The room became silent.
“Seven babies?” I asked.
Marta nodded.
“Seven children were transferred through Santa Elena.”
“And ours was one of them?”
“Yes.”
Mariana held her stomach.
“What happened to the others?”
Marta didn't answer.
My phone vibrated.
A message appeared.
No number.
No photograph.
Just one sentence.
STOP LOOKING FOR MIA.
Another message followed.
OR YOUR SECOND BABY WILL DISAPPEAR TOO.
I stared at Mariana's pregnant stomach.
She looked at my face.
“Adrián?”
I couldn't speak.
Then another message arrived.
WE KNOW WHERE YOU ARE.
The lights went out.
Marta screamed.
A door slammed somewhere in the basement.
My mother grabbed my arm.
“Don't move.”
Then footsteps began coming toward us.
Slow.
Heavy.
One step.
Then another.
Mariana pressed herself against me.
The footsteps stopped outside the room.
A key entered the lock.
May you like
And from the other side of the door, a man's voice whispered—
“Adrián, I know you found the archive.”
