Chapter 5 - The Secret Behind the Four-Million-Dollar House
The woman’s name was Rosa Valdés.
Celeste’s mother.
I had attended her funeral.
Or what I believed was her funeral.
There had been no open coffin.
Celeste said Rosa died overseas.
Neftalí’s video told another story.
Rosa was alive.
And she knew what her daughter had done.
Gabriel found her through a bank transfer Neftalí had hidden in the HOUSE file.
A small town three hours away.
We drove there the next morning.
Rosa opened the door before we knocked.
She was sixty-eight.
Thin.
Gray-haired.
Afraid.
When she saw me, she began crying.
“I’m sorry.”
Those were her first words.
Not hello.
Not come inside.
I’m sorry.
“For what?”
“For raising a daughter who did this to you.”
Rosa had disappeared because Celeste paid her to.
Years earlier, Rosa discovered Victor and Celeste were siphoning money from Neftalí.
She threatened to expose them.
Celeste retaliated with something crueler than money.
She convinced people Rosa was unstable.
Then she arranged for her to leave the country under another name.
Neftalí eventually found her.
“He came here seven months ago,” Rosa said.
“Why didn’t he tell me?”
“He was trying to protect you.”
I was beginning to hate that phrase.
Protection built from secrets can look a great deal like betrayal.
Rosa had evidence.
Emails.
Recorded calls.
Copies of financial instructions.
Most importantly, she had a recording of Celeste discussing Neftalí’s medication with Victor.
It did not contain a direct confession to murder.
But one sentence made my blood cold.
“He takes whatever is in that bottle without looking.”
Victor answered:
“Then stop worrying.”
Rosa had given Neftalí the recording.
He had promised to take it to federal investigators once he finished documenting the financial crimes.
He died first.
“Come with us,” I said.
Rosa shook her head.
“I can’t face her.”
“Yes, you can.”
“You don’t understand my daughter.”
“I lived with her for twenty-three years.”
“She will destroy me.”
“She already tried.”
Rosa stared at me.
“So did mine,” I said. “But my son left us enough truth to stop hiding.”
She agreed.
We went directly to an attorney Neftalí had named in the files: Rebecca Sloan.
Rebecca moved quickly.
The trust documents were authentic.
The transfer to Celeste contained a forged signature.
The estate was legally mine.
But Rebecca advised me not to confront Celeste yet.
Police needed time.
Financial investigators needed records.
The medical evidence needed review.
I listened.
Then I said:
“I’m going home.”
Rebecca frowned.
“That could be dangerous.”
“It is my house.”
“Legally, yes.”
“Then legally I am going to sleep in my bed.”
Gabriel smiled despite himself.
That afternoon, we drove through the gates.
Celeste was hosting a luncheon.
Cars lined the circular driveway.
I entered wearing the same lavender cardigan she had seen at the cabin.
Conversation stopped.
Celeste stood near the staircase holding a glass of champagne.
Her face turned white.
“What are you doing here?”
“Coming home.”
“This isn’t your home.”
Rebecca entered behind me.
“Yes,” she said. “It is.”
Celeste laughed.
Rebecca handed her documents.
The laughter ended.
“You forged Mrs. Reyes’s signature.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“We’ve filed an emergency petition challenging the transfer.”
Victor appeared from the dining room.
He saw Rosa.
The glass in his hand slipped.
It shattered.
Celeste turned.
For the first time, she saw her mother.
“Mama?”
Rosa trembled.
But she didn’t run.
“I should have stopped you years ago.”
Celeste’s face became something I had never seen.
Not anger.
Terror.
Victor moved toward the side door.
Two investigators were waiting outside.
He stopped.
The luncheon guests began whispering.
Celeste looked at me.
“You did this.”
“No.”
I stepped closer.
“Neftalí did.”
Her expression changed again.
That name wounded her.
Good.
“Where is the evidence?” she asked.
I knew immediately she was testing me.
So I lied.
“Somewhere you’ll never find it.”
That night, I returned to my old bedroom.
Police had not arrested Celeste.
Not yet.
She had been ordered not to remove property while the court reviewed the trust dispute.
I should have felt victorious.
Instead, I felt watched.
At 2:13 a.m., I heard footsteps outside my bedroom.
They stopped at my door.
The handle turned.
May you like
And a voice whispered from the hallway:
“Eulalia, I know where Neftalí kept the original.”
