Chapter 5 - The House on Calle Morelos
The phone kept ringing inside the wall.
I stood frozen in the darkness, listening to that impossible sound pulse through the bedroom.
Ring.
Silence.
Ring.
Iván reached for me.
“Don’t move.”
I pulled away from him.
“Where is it?”
“I don’t know.”
“You said you found Camila.”
“I said I found her at a hospital.”
“Then tell me which hospital.”
He didn't answer.
The phone rang again.
This time, I followed the sound.
It was coming from behind the headboard.
I ran my fingers along the wall until they found a small crack near the electrical outlet.
“There.”
Iván grabbed my wrist.
“Valeria, stop.”
I jerked my hand away.
“You don't get to tell me what to do anymore.”
I pulled the headboard forward.
A narrow black phone had been taped behind it.
It was old.
Cheap.
The screen glowed in the darkness.
INCOMING CALL — PRIVATE NUMBER
Iván stared at it.
“You recognize it.”
“No.”
“You do.”
He didn't answer.
I pressed the call button.
“Hello?”
Nothing.
Then breathing.
Slow.
Deliberate.
A woman's voice whispered:
“Go to Calle Morelos.”
My heart stopped.
“Sofía?”
The line went dead.
I turned toward Iván.
“What is on Calle Morelos?”
He looked exhausted.
“The house.”
“What house?”
“The house where Camila was born.”
I stared at him.
“You told me she was found at a hospital.”
“She was.”
“Then why does Sofía want me to go there?”
“Because she knows something I don't.”
“You're lying.”
“No.”
“You've been lying for seven years.”
He looked at me.
“I know.”
The honesty in his voice frightened me more than another lie would have.
I grabbed my purse.
“We're going.”
“No.”
“I wasn't asking.”
“You don't understand what that place is.”
“Then explain it.”
He looked at the open mattress.
At the old photographs.
At the phone.
Then he whispered:
“Sofía's family owned it.”
I stopped.
“Why would she send me there?”
“Because after she disappeared, I went there.”
“And?”
“I found blood.”
My stomach tightened.
“Whose?”
“I don't know.”
“You never reported it?”
“I did.”
“You said you had no report.”
“I lied.”
I stared at him.
“Of course you did.”
He looked down.
“I was afraid.”
“Of what?”
“Of being blamed.”
“For what?”
“Ivan’s voice broke. “For not protecting her.”
For a moment, I saw something human in him.
Not the businessman.
Not the husband.
Not the liar.
Just a man who had spent eleven years running from something.
I wanted to believe him.
I almost did.
Then I remembered the mattress.
The hidden documents.
The second box.
The secret phone.
And the woman who had called me from somewhere in the dark.
I stepped toward the door.
Iván blocked me.
“You can't go there tonight.”
“Why?”
“Because it's dangerous.”
“Everything becomes dangerous whenever I get close to the truth.”
He closed his eyes.
“Please.”
“No.”
I opened the door.
The hallway lights came back on.
For one second, neither of us moved.
Then I noticed something on the floor.
A small white envelope had been pushed beneath our apartment door.
My name was written across it.
VALERIA RÍOS
I picked it up.
Iván's face changed.
“Don't open that.”
I looked at him.
“That's becoming your favorite sentence.”
I tore it open.
Inside was a single photograph.
A baby.
Wrapped in a white blanket.
On the back, someone had written:
Camila — 3 days old.
My fingers started shaking.
Under the photograph was another note.
You asked where she went.
I turned it over.
She never left Mexico City.
I looked at Iván.
He was staring at the photograph.
“You knew.”
“No.”
“You knew.”
“I suspected.”
“Where is she?”
“I don't know.”
“Then we're going to find her.”
I grabbed my keys.
He followed me.
“Valeria.”
“Don't.”
“I need to tell you something before we leave.”
I stopped.
“What?”
He looked toward the apartment.
“The woman in the photograph wasn't the only person who disappeared.”
My chest tightened.
“Who else?”
“Marcos.”
I frowned.
“Your business partner?”
“He disappeared three days after Sofía.”
I stared at him.
“Why didn't you ever tell me?”
“Because I thought he was involved.”
“Involved in what?”
“I didn't know.”
“Then why did you keep working with him?”
“I didn't.”
I remembered.
Marcos had told me for years that Iván was the most loyal person he knew.
He had been around our marriage from the beginning.
At our wedding.
At our anniversary dinners.
At birthdays.
At our apartment.
Always smiling.
Always reassuring me.
Always telling me that Iván was a good man.
A cold feeling spread through my chest.
“Where is Marcos now?”
“I don't know.”
I stared at him.
“You expect me to believe that both Sofía and Marcos disappeared, and you simply continued living your life?”
“I tried to find them.”
“And failed.”
“Yes.”
“You married me.”
“Yes.”
“You built a life with me.”
“Yes.”
“And all this time, there was a missing woman, a missing child, a missing business partner, and a secret inside our mattress.”
He looked at me.
“I know.”
I walked past him.
We took the elevator down.
Neither of us spoke.
In the parking garage, I noticed his car was parked in a different space.
I stopped.
“Why is your car here?”
“I drove back.”
“You said you took a taxi from the airport.”
He stared at me.
“I didn't say that.”
“You told me yesterday you were taking a taxi.”
He didn't answer.
I walked toward the car.
The driver's door was unlocked.
Inside, there was a small brown envelope on the passenger seat.
I opened it.
A hotel receipt.
The date was today.
The location was Mexico City.
Not Monterrey.
The room number was 407.
I looked at Iván.
“You never went to Monterrey.”
“No.”
“Where were you?”
He hesitated.
“Room 407.”
“With whom?”
He looked away.
“Sofía.”
The word hit me harder than anything else.
“She was in Mexico City?”
“Yes.”
“You met her today?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“To ask her where Camila was.”
“Did you find out?”
“She wouldn't tell me.”
“Why?”
“Because she didn't trust me.”
I almost laughed.
“She should have trusted me instead.”
Iván looked at me.
“She did.”
“What?”
“Sofía trusted you.”
I stared at him.
“Why?”
“Because you're the reason she contacted me.”
I couldn't breathe.
“What does that mean?”
He reached into his jacket.
He pulled out another photograph.
He handed it to me.
It was a picture of me.
Taken outside my clinic.
I was walking toward my car.
The date was three months earlier.
The day the smell first appeared.
I looked at him.
“Who took this?”
“I don't know.”
“You're lying again.”
“No.”
“Why was someone watching me?”
“I don't know.”
I looked at the photograph again.
On the back was a handwritten sentence.
She chose Valeria because Valeria would believe the smell.
I felt sick.
“What does that mean?”
“I don't know.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“No.”
He looked toward the exit.
“Someone wanted you to find the mattress.”
The garage suddenly felt enormous.
“And you?”
“I wanted you to stay away from it.”
“Why?”
“Because whoever put those things there wanted you to open it.”
I stared at him.
“Why would someone want me to find evidence against you?”
He didn't answer.
Then I understood.
“Because they wanted me to blame you.”
He nodded.
“But why?”
“I don't know.”
My phone rang.
Sofía.
I answered immediately.
“Where are you?”
Her voice was barely audible.
“Don't go to Calle Morelos.”
I froze.
“You told me to go there.”
“I changed my mind.”
“Why?”
“Because someone is already there.”
My eyes went to Iván.
“Who?”
“Someone who knows about Camila.”
“Who?”
Sofía started crying.
Then she whispered:
“Your friend.”
The line went dead.
I looked at Iván.
“Marcos?”
He shook his head.
“No.”
“Then who?”
He didn't answer.
I grabbed his sleeve.
“Who is my friend?”
He looked terrified.
“Valeria…”
“Tell me.”
His eyes filled with fear.
“Your sister.”
I froze.
“My sister died six years ago.”
“I know.”
“What are you talking about?”
He looked toward the parking garage entrance.
“I know she died.”
“Then why did you just say—”
A car entered the garage.
Its headlights swept across us.
Iván grabbed my arm.
“Get down.”
We crouched behind his car.
The vehicle stopped several spaces away.
The driver's door opened.
A woman stepped out.
I couldn't see her face.
She walked slowly toward us.
Iván's breathing became shallow.
I whispered:
“Who is she?”
He didn't answer.
The woman stopped beside the concrete pillar.
Then she raised her phone.
The screen illuminated her face.
I saw her.
And every piece of my life suddenly stopped making sense.
Because the woman standing twenty feet away had my sister's face.
She looked directly at me.
Then she smiled.
May you like
And said my childhood nickname—
“Vale…”
