Chapter 2 - The Man Who Walked Away
“Ma’am? Can you hear me?”
I opened my eyes to a ceiling I didn't recognize.
White.
Bright.
Moving.
For several seconds, I couldn't remember where I was.
Then I heard a baby crying.
My heart jumped.
“Nicolás?”
A nurse leaned over me.
“Your son is safe.”
I tried to sit up.
Pain shot through my abdomen.
“Where is he?”
“He's in the neonatal unit.”
“Why?”
The nurse exchanged a glance with someone behind her.
“You lost a dangerous amount of blood.”
I remembered.
The carpet.
The crib.
Sergio.
The phone.
I closed my eyes.
“He left me.”
The nurse didn't answer.
“He left me there.”
A woman in a dark jacket stepped closer.
She wasn't wearing a hospital uniform.
“Mrs. Luján?”
I looked at her.
“I'm Detective Mara Ruiz.”
My stomach tightened.
“Is my husband here?”
“No.”
“Where is he?”
“He's still in Valle de Bravo.”
I stared at her.
She sat beside the bed.
“Your brother contacted emergency services.”
“Andrés?”
“Yes.”
Tears filled my eyes.
“How did he know?”
“You sent him a message.”
“I don't remember.”
“It arrived.”
She showed me a photograph of my tablet.
My message was there.
Nico. Blood. Sergio left.
Under it was another message.
Please help.
I remembered writing the first sentence.
I didn't remember the second.
“Who sent that?”
“We're not sure.”
Detective Ruiz placed a plastic evidence bag on the table.
Inside was my phone.
It was still on.
The screen showed twenty-nine missed calls.
“All from your brother?”
I nodded.
“Most of them.”
“Did Sergio call?”
I looked at the screen.
There was one call from him.
A short call.
After the twenty-ninth missed call.
At 2:13 a.m.
I hadn't answered.
“Why did he call?”
“We don't know.”
She opened a notebook.
“But we do know something else.”
I waited.
“Your husband didn't simply leave.”
My throat tightened.
“What do you mean?”
“Before he left the house, he contacted a private driver.”
“For the airport?”
“No.”
She slid a photograph toward me.
It showed Sergio standing outside a pharmacy.
The timestamp was from the morning of my collapse.
“What was he buying?”
“We're still determining that.”
I looked at the photograph again.
His expression was calm.
Almost bored.
“Did he hurt me?”
“We don't know yet.”
The words frightened me more than if she had answered yes.
I looked toward the window.
“Where is my baby?”
“Your son was found by a neighbor.”
My heart stopped.
“Found?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“In the nursery.”
I stared at her.
“How?”
The detective leaned forward.
“Your brother's message triggered an emergency response. A neighbor named Teresa had a spare key because she sometimes helped you with the baby.”
I remembered Teresa.
An older woman from two houses down.
She had brought soup after my surgery.
She had asked Sergio several times if I needed help.
He always told her no.
“She heard Nicolás crying,” Ruiz continued. “She entered the house.”
I covered my mouth.
“And me?”
“You were unconscious.”
“How long?”
“Long enough that the doctors were concerned.”
I looked down at my hands.
“I thought I was going to die.”
“You almost did.”
Silence filled the room.
Then Ruiz reached into her folder.
“There is another issue.”
“What?”
She placed a photograph on the bed.
An envelope.
Marfil.
The same envelope I had seen on the kitchen counter that morning.
“The bank?”
I whispered.
“Yes.”
“What about it?”
“Your husband took it.”
My pulse quickened.
“He said it was advertising.”
“It wasn't.”
“What was inside?”
“We don't know yet.”
“Then why do you have a photograph?”
“Because your husband was seen carrying it.”
I stared at the image.
Sergio had the envelope in his hand.
He was walking toward his car.
The timestamp was eleven minutes before I began bleeding.
I remembered the morning.
The perfume.
The suitcase.
The water.
The bitter taste.
I looked at Detective Ruiz.
“The water.”
“What about it?”
“He gave me a glass before he left.”
Her expression changed.
“What did it taste like?”
“Bitter.”
She immediately wrote something down.
Then her phone rang.
She answered.
“Ruiz.”
She listened.
Her eyes moved toward me.
“What?”
A pause.
Then she stood.
“Repeat that.”
Another pause.
She looked at me.
“Understood.”
She ended the call.
“What happened?”
She didn't answer immediately.
Instead, she asked:
“Mrs. Luján, did you know that someone tried to change the beneficiary instructions on your mother's trust the same day you were left unconscious?”
My blood ran cold.
“No.”
“The bank rejected the request.”
“Why?”
“Because your personal presence was required.”
She opened the folder.
Inside was a copy of the rejected request.
My name appeared at the bottom.
My signature was there.
I stared at it.
It looked like mine.
But I hadn't signed it.
Detective Ruiz turned the page.
“And there is something else.”
“What?”
She pointed to the authorization number.
“This request was submitted before your husband left the house.”
I couldn't breathe.
May you like
Then she whispered:
“The person who submitted it used your mother's original security phrase.”
