Chapter 4 - Eleven Years of Lies
The second compartment was smaller.
Much smaller.
I crouched beside the mattress while Iván stood behind me.
“Don't touch it,” he said.
I looked over my shoulder.
“You've said that before.”
“This is different.”
“That is exactly what people say when something is worse.”
I cut through the remaining fabric.
A small metal box appeared beneath the foam.
It was old.
Black.
No lock.
I pulled it free.
Iván stepped backward.
“What is it?”
“You tell me.”
“I've never seen it.”
“Then why are you afraid?”
“I told you, Valeria. I don't know.”
I opened the box.
Inside was a flash drive.
Three keys.
A folded receipt.
And a photograph.
I picked up the photograph.
It showed Sofía standing outside a small house.
She was holding a baby.
Camila.
The date printed on the bottom was eleven years old.
I turned it over.
There was writing.
If anything happens to me, look for the house on Calle Morelos.
I looked at Iván.
“Where is Calle Morelos?”
He didn't answer.
“Iván.”
“Guanajuato.”
My stomach dropped.
“You knew.”
“I knew there was a house.”
“Whose?”
“Sofía's parents.”
“Are they alive?”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
He sat on the edge of the chair.
“I went there after she disappeared.”
“Why?”
“To find her.”
“Did you find Camila?”
His eyes filled with something I couldn't identify.
Regret.
Fear.
Maybe guilt.
“No.”
I held the photograph tighter.
“Then where was the baby?”
“I don't know.”
“You're lying.”
“No.”
“You knew about her pregnancy.”
“Yes.”
“You knew about the child.”
“Yes.”
“You knew Sofía disappeared.”
“Yes.”
“And you never told me.”
“I thought I was protecting you.”
“Stop saying that.”
He looked at me.
“You married me knowing your first wife was still legally your wife.”
“I believed she was dead.”
“You didn't know.”
“No.”
“You assumed.”
“Yes.”
“And then you married me.”
“Yes.”
I laughed once.
It sounded nothing like happiness.
“You built our entire marriage on an assumption.”
He lowered his head.
I opened the receipt.
It was from a storage facility in Guanajuato.
The date was eleven years ago.
The customer name was listed as:
S. Lara
There was a handwritten unit number.
R-17.
I looked at Iván.
“What is R-17?”
He stood.
“Give me the receipt.”
“No.”
“Valeria.”
“No.”
He took one step toward me.
I raised my phone.
“I already sent photographs of everything to someone.”
That was a lie.
But it worked.
He stopped.
“Who?”
“The police.”
His face tightened.
“Which police?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because if you sent this to the wrong person, we could both be in danger.”
I studied him.
“You keep saying 'we.'”
“Because I love you.”
The words should have affected me.
Once, they would have.
Now they sounded like another tool.
“Did you love Sofía?”
His face broke.
“Yes.”
“Do you still love her?”
He didn't answer.
That was enough.
My phone rang again.
Sofía.
I answered immediately.
“Where are you?”
“Did you find the second box?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“What is R-17?”
A pause.
“The place where he kept the truth.”
My heart pounded.
“What truth?”
“The truth about why I disappeared.”
“Tell me.”
“I can't.”
“Why?”
“Because Iván isn't the only person who lied to you.”
I looked at my husband.
“Who else?”
“Someone you already know.”
My stomach tightened.
“Who?”
Sofía's voice became softer.
“Your friend.”
I thought of every person close to us.
My colleague.
Our neighbors.
Our building administrator.
Iván's business partner.
My sister.
I couldn't breathe.
“Which friend?”
“The one who always told you Iván was a good man.”
My eyes moved toward the bedroom door.
There was only one person who had said that consistently.
Marcos.
Iván's closest business partner.
A man who had attended our wedding.
A man who had visited our apartment countless times.
A man who had once told me, jokingly, that I should never doubt my husband.
My phone suddenly went silent.
Then a message arrived from an unknown number.
Stop asking questions.
Another followed.
R-17 should stay closed.
Then another.
If you open it, you will learn what happened to Camila.
I stared at the words.
My hands went cold.
I looked at Iván.
He was staring at my phone.
“You know something about Camila.”
He looked away.
“I don't.”
“Then why did your face change?”
He didn't answer.
I stepped toward him.
“What happened to your daughter?”
His silence became unbearable.
Then he finally whispered:
“I found her eleven years ago.”
My breath stopped.
“You found Camila?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
He looked toward the hallway.
“Not here.”
“Where?”
His eyes met mine.
“At a hospital.”
I felt the room tilt.
“What hospital?”
He opened his mouth.
Before he could answer, the apartment lights went out.
The entire room fell into darkness.
Then a phone began ringing from inside the wall.
Not mine.
Not Iván's.
A third phone.
May you like
Hidden somewhere behind our bedroom.
And the ringtone was the same one I had heard on the night Sofía disappeared.
