Chapter 4 - The Woman Who Came at Midnight
Her name was Helena Cruz.
She had been Neftalí’s executive assistant for eleven years.
At the funeral, she had stood near the back and cried silently.
Now her voice was on my son’s secret recording.
“Neftalí, you have to tell your mother.”
“I will.”
“You keep saying that.”
“If Celeste learns Mama knows about the trust, she’ll go after her.”
Then Helena said:
“She already has.”
The recording stopped.
Gabriel and I stared at each other.
“What did she mean?”
“I don’t know.”
At midnight, someone knocked.
I grabbed the candlestick.
“Who is it?”
“Helena.”
I opened the door.
She looked terrified.
“You heard the recording.”
“How could you know?”
“Because I made sure Neftalí kept it.”
She entered.
Then she told me what my son had hidden from me for nearly a year.
Celeste had tried to have me declared mentally incompetent.
Not because she wanted to care for me.
Because if a court declared me incapable, someone else could control my interest in the trust.
Victor had arranged doctors.
Evaluations.
Documents.
Neftalí discovered the plan.
“He stopped it,” Helena said.
“Why didn’t he tell me?”
“Because he was ashamed.”
That hurt more than I expected.
“He thought he had brought Celeste into your life.”
“He had.”
Helena lowered her eyes.
“He loved her once.”
“I know.”
“He stopped loving her long before he stopped protecting her.”
That was harder to hear.
Love dies quietly in many marriages.
Sometimes responsibility survives it.
Sometimes fear does.
Neftalí had been collecting evidence.
Then he discovered Celeste and Victor were not simply stealing.
They were preparing for his death.
Helena produced an envelope.
Inside was a photocopy of an insurance policy.
Twenty million dollars.
Beneficiary: Celeste Reyes.
Issued eight months earlier.
“Did Neftalí know?”
“Not at first.”
“How can someone insure another person without them knowing?”
“He signed paperwork.”
“Then he knew.”
“He thought it was corporate coverage.”
Victor had allegedly substituted pages.
My son had been signing his own death warrant.
The next morning, Gabriel drove me to the chapel.
Helena stayed behind with the evidence.
At noon, Ortega appeared.
He looked exhausted.
He carried a medical folder.
“I’m sorry about your son.”
“Tell me what killed him.”
Ortega opened the folder.
Neftalí had suffered cardiac arrest.
But his blood contained a medication capable of dangerously disrupting heart rhythm when combined with his prescription.
The amount was too high to be accidental.
“Poison?”
“Medication poisoning.”
“Could someone put it in food?”
“Yes.”
“Drink?”
“Yes.”
“His pills?”
Ortega hesitated.
“Yes.”
I remembered the photograph.
The different-colored tablets.
“Why wasn’t this in the official report?”
“Because the sample disappeared.”
“Who had access?”
“Several people.”
“Victor?”
“No.”
“Celeste?”
“Family access is limited.”
He looked uncomfortable.
“But?”
“Celeste knew the hospital administrator.”
Victor’s brother-in-law.
The pieces were no longer scattered.
They were forming a picture.
We needed proof strong enough for police.
Ortega had kept one thing.
A duplicate laboratory printout.
Not enough alone.
But enough to reopen questions.
We returned to the cabin.
The door was open.
Helena was gone.
The metal box had been pulled from beneath the floor.
Empty.
On the altar was Neftalí’s photograph.
Someone had broken the glass.
Under it was a note.
STOP DIGGING OR THE NEXT COFFIN IS YOURS.
Gabriel wanted me gone immediately.
“No.”
“Eulalia—”
“No.”
“They know.”
“Good.”
He stared.
“They think they frightened me.”
“They should have.”
“I buried my child.”
My voice broke.
Then steadied.
“Do you understand what that means? There is nothing Celeste can threaten me with that hurts more than what I have already survived.”
We searched the cabin.
The flash drive was gone.
Documents gone.
Recorder gone.
Everything.
Except the photograph.
I lifted the broken frame.
Something rattled inside.
Gabriel heard it too.
We removed the cardboard backing.
A tiny memory card fell into my palm.
My son had hidden a backup inside his own photograph.
There were only three files on it.
One was titled HOUSE.
One was titled MAMA.
The third was titled:
IF VICTOR FINDS THIS.
I opened it.
A video appeared.
Neftalí sat at his desk.
He looked exhausted.
“If you are watching this, Victor probably thinks he has won.”
He leaned toward the camera.
“He hasn’t.”
Then my son named the person who could prove everything.
I knew her.
May you like
Gabriel knew her.
And according to Celeste, she had been dead for six years.
