Chapter 1 - The Locked Bedroom
“Please, Santiago! My baby is burning!”
Mariana’s voice came from behind the locked bedroom door.
I had just forced the wooden door open when I saw her sitting on the floor beside our bed, pale and shaking, with Emiliano crying weakly in the bassinet.
I grabbed the digital thermometer from the nightstand.
It read 39.1°C.
That number changed everything.
I dropped my suitcase in the hallway and rushed toward my wife.
“Mariana?”
She looked up at me.
Her face was wet with tears, and her dark hair clung to her cheeks.
“Santiago…”
Her voice was barely there.
I knelt beside her.
“What happened?”
She tried to stand.
Her body immediately gave out.
I caught her before she hit the floor.
Only then did I notice her wrists.
Red marks circled both of them.
Some had already turned purple.
My stomach tightened.
“Who did this?”
Mariana looked toward the doorway.
I followed her eyes.
My mother stood there holding a cup of tea.
Ofelia looked completely calm.
Behind her, my sister Paola leaned against the wall, staring at her phone.
My mother sighed.
“Lower your voice.”
I stared at her.
“My wife is locked in a bedroom with our newborn.”
“She wasn't locked in,” Mother replied. “The chair was there because she needed to stop wandering around.”
“Wandering?”
“She gets emotional.”
Mariana shook her head.
“I wanted to take Emiliano to the hospital.”
Mother rolled her eyes.
“She panicked over nothing.”
I looked at the thermometer again.
“Nothing?”
Paola finally glanced up.
“Thirty-seven-something isn't an emergency.”
“It's thirty-nine point one.”
Nobody answered.
I lifted Emiliano from the bassinet.
His little body felt frighteningly hot.
He cried weakly against my chest.
That frightened me more than screaming would have.
I looked at Mariana.
“Can you walk?”
She nodded.
“I think so.”
I helped her stand.
She immediately gripped my arm.
Pain flashed across her face.
“Easy.”
My mother folded her arms.
“This is exactly what I was talking about.”
I turned toward her.
“What were you talking about?”
“She refuses to listen.”
Mariana whispered, “She took my phone.”
I looked at Mother.
“Why?”
“She was calling you constantly.”
“She called me once.”
“She was trying to create drama.”
I didn't argue.
Not then.
I called my neighbor and asked him to drive because my work truck was still packed with equipment.
Ten minutes later, Mariana and I were in the back seat.
Emiliano was in my arms.
Mariana leaned against the window, trembling.
I kept looking between them.
I couldn't stop thinking about the locked door.
At the hospital, nurses immediately took Emiliano.
They inserted an IV and began checking his temperature.
Another nurse took Mariana away.
I stood alone in the emergency corridor.
My hands were shaking.
A doctor eventually approached.
“Mr. Santiago?”
“Yes.”
“Your son is being treated for a significant fever. We're monitoring him closely.”
I swallowed.
“And my wife?”
The doctor hesitated.
“She has signs of dehydration and a possible postpartum infection. We also noticed injuries around both wrists.”
My jaw tightened.
“What kind of injuries?”
“Marks consistent with strong restraint.”
I stared at her.
“My mother says Mariana was unstable.”
The doctor looked directly at me.
“Then we need to understand why a recently operated woman felt she had to escape a room while caring for a sick newborn.”
I had no answer.
A nurse appeared.
“Mr. Santiago? Your wife wants to see you.”
I entered the room.
Mariana was sitting upright, exhausted.
She looked toward the door before speaking.
“Are we alone?”
I checked.
“Yes.”
Her hand disappeared beneath the blanket.
She pulled out a folded piece of paper.
“I hid this before we left.”
I unfolded it.
At the top was Mariana's name.
Below it were several handwritten notes.
Unstable behavior.
Risk to minor.
Consider paternal family placement.
I recognized the handwriting immediately.
My mother's.
I looked at Mariana.
“How long?”
She swallowed.
“This didn't start when you left.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“Your mother has been preparing something for weeks.”
My phone vibrated.
A message from Paola.
I opened it.
If you're going to take her side, check Mom's blue folder. Then don't say nobody warned you.
I stared at the screen.
Before I could reply, another message appeared.
She doesn't know I sent this.
Then another.
And Santiago… don't let Mom know you saw it.
I looked at Mariana.
She was staring at me.
“What's wrong?”
I slowly turned the phone toward her.
Her face went pale.
“Don't go back alone,” she whispered.
May you like
But I was already thinking about the blue folder.
And what might be inside it.
