Chapter 9 - The Records Room
The lights went out.
“Valeria…”
The voice came from somewhere behind us.
I froze.
Isabela grabbed my hand.
“Don't answer.”
The garage fell completely silent.
Then I heard footsteps.
Slow.
Measured.
Coming closer.
Iván stepped in front of us.
“Stay behind me.”
Lucía whispered:
“Who is that?”
No one answered.
A faint emergency light flickered on near the elevator.
For less than a second, I saw a man's silhouette at the end of the garage.
Then the light disappeared again.
“Run,” Iván said.
We moved.
Isabela pulled me toward the stairwell while Lucía followed behind us.
A door slammed somewhere above.
We stopped.
Iván looked up.
“Someone locked the elevator.”
“Then use the stairs,” I whispered.
He nodded.
We ran.
Three flights.
Four.
Five.
By the time we reached the lobby, my lungs were burning.
The security desk was empty.
That was wrong.
There was always someone there.
I looked through the glass doors.
The street outside was quiet.
Too quiet.
“Where is the guard?” I asked.
Iván shook his head.
“I don't know.”
Isabela looked at the clock.
“We have to go.”
“Where?”
“To San Gabriel.”
I stared at her.
“The records room?”
“Yes.”
“You said I should go alone.”
“I was wrong.”
“Why?”
“Because Marcos knows you're coming.”
Lucía stepped closer.
“And if he knows, we can't let you walk into that room by yourself.”
I looked at Iván.
“Are you coming?”
He hesitated.
“Yes.”
I didn't trust him.
But I trusted the possibility that he might know more than he had admitted.
We left the building in two cars.
I rode with Isabela and Lucía.
Iván followed behind us.
The drive to Clínica San Gabriel felt longer than usual.
Every red light seemed dangerous.
Every motorcycle made me look into the side mirror.
Twice, I thought I saw the same black SUV behind us.
The third time, I was certain.
“Isabela.”
“What?”
“Look behind us.”
She checked the mirror.
Her face changed.
“That car has been following us since the garage.”
Lucía looked back.
“Don't turn around.”
“Why?”
“Because if they know we've noticed them, they'll know we're afraid.”
I swallowed.
We kept driving.
The black SUV stayed behind us.
Until we turned onto a narrow street.
Then it disappeared.
I didn't feel relieved.
I felt watched.
Five minutes later, we reached San Gabriel.
The clinic was still open.
People moved through the lobby.
Nurses walked between departments.
Patients sat in waiting areas.
Everything looked normal.
That almost made it worse.
I had worked there for years.
I knew every hallway.
Every elevator.
Every locked door.
Every administrative office.
I had walked past the records department hundreds of times without ever wondering what was hidden inside.
Isabela touched my shoulder.
“Your father's records aren't in the public archive.”
“Where are they?”
“Basement.”
I stared at her.
“There is no basement.”
She shook her head.
“There is.”
“Not on the building plans.”
“Exactly.”
We went through a staff corridor.
I used my employee badge.
The first door opened.
Then another.
At the end of the hallway was an old metal door.
I had never noticed it.
There was no sign.
No handle.
Only a keypad.
Isabela pulled out a key.
“The second key.”
I stared at it.
“The one from the mattress.”
“Yes.”
She inserted it.
The lock clicked.
The door opened.
Cold air came from inside.
We stepped through.
The room beyond was much larger than I expected.
Shelves covered every wall.
Boxes filled the floor.
Old patient files.
Medical records.
Birth certificates.
Adoption documents.
My father's handwriting appeared on several folders.
I felt sick.
“How long has this been here?”
Lucía whispered:
“Years.”
I walked toward a shelf.
There were names.
Hundreds of them.
Some had been crossed out.
Some had numbers beside them.
Some had new names written underneath.
I picked up one folder.
A baby girl.
Transferred at two days old.
Another.
A boy.
Transferred at four days old.
Another.
Twin girls.
My hands began to shake.
I opened it.
Mother: Sofía Lara Medina.
My breath caught.
The page contained two names.
Baby A: Camila Cárdenas.
Baby B: Isabela Ríos.
I looked at Isabela.
She covered her mouth.
Her eyes filled with tears.
“My name was there.”
“Yes.”
“Who changed it?”
I turned the page.
There was a second record.
Baby B transferred under private authorization.
The receiving family name was listed.
I read it.
Then read it again.
I couldn't breathe.
The name was familiar.
Too familiar.
I looked at Isabela.
“You were raised by the Ríos family.”
She nodded.
“That's what they told me.”
I stared at the document.
The receiving family was not the Ríos family.
It was another surname.
One I recognized from my own childhood.
The name of the family who had lived two houses away from us.
The family who had always been close to my father.
I looked at Lucía.
“Why would they change her name?”
Lucía whispered:
“To make sure no one could find her.”
“Who changed the record?”
She pointed to the signature.
My father's.
But beneath it was another signature.
Marcos.
My stomach turned.
“He did this.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“To hide the transfer.”
I looked at Isabela.
“You weren't adopted.”
She stared at the file.
“What?”
“You were stolen.”
The word hung between us.
She started crying.
I reached for her hand.
“We'll find out who did it.”
A sound came from the hallway.
Footsteps.
We froze.
Iván closed the door.
Everyone became silent.
The footsteps stopped outside.
Someone tried the handle.
Once.
Twice.
Then stopped.
Lucía whispered:
“There's another exit.”
“Where?”
She pointed toward the far wall.
We moved quickly.
Behind a row of boxes was a narrow passage.
I opened it.
A staircase led upward.
But before we could enter, the metal door behind us opened.
We turned.
A man stood in the doorway.
Marcos.
He looked older than the photograph I had seen.
Gray hair.
Dark coat.
Calm expression.
He didn't appear angry.
He appeared tired.
“I wondered when you would find this room.”
Isabela stepped forward.
“You stole my identity.”
Marcos looked at her.
“No.”
“You changed my name.”
“I saved your life.”
“You stole my life.”
“I kept you alive.”
I looked at him.
“Why?”
His eyes moved to me.
“Because your father wanted both of you gone.”
“Both?”
“Camila and Isabela.”
“Why?”
“Because Sofía knew the truth.”
“What truth?”
He stared at me.
“Your father wasn't selling babies.”
I felt my stomach drop.
“Then what was he doing?”
Marcos stepped into the room.
“He was replacing them.”
I didn't understand.
“What does that mean?”
“He would take one child from one family and give another child in return.”
“Why?”
“Money.”
“That makes no sense.”
“It wasn't supposed to.”
He looked at the shelves.
“Families paid for healthy children. Families with sick babies paid to exchange them. Records were changed. Birth certificates were rewritten. No one asked questions.”
I felt sick.
“And Sofía discovered it.”
“Yes.”
“She tried to expose him.”
“Yes.”
“What happened to her?”
Marcos looked at Iván.
“Iván knows.”
I turned.
Iván's face was white.
“Tell her.”
He shook his head.
“I can't.”
Marcos smiled sadly.
“You still think you're protecting her.”
“Enough.”
Marcos looked at me.
“Your mother discovered that your father had switched one of the twins.”
I stared.
“What?”
“Baby A wasn't Camila.”
My heart stopped.
“What are you saying?”
“Camila was not the baby Sofía took home.”
Isabela stepped backward.
“No.”
Marcos continued.
“The hospital made the mistake first.”
I looked at the old photograph.
Two babies.
Pink.
Blue.
“Then who was Camila?”
Marcos looked directly at me.
“That is what Sofía spent eleven years trying to discover.”
My hands went cold.
“Where is she?”
He didn't answer.
“Where is Camila?”
Marcos's eyes moved toward a locked cabinet.
“The truth is in there.”
I rushed toward it.
Iván grabbed my shoulder.
“Wait.”
I pulled away.
“Move.”
“There could be a trap.”
“I don't care.”
I took the third key from my pocket.
The one Lucía had warned me about.
The key that opened the place where they kept Camila.
I inserted it into the cabinet.
It fit.
I turned it.
The lock clicked.
Everyone stopped breathing.
I opened the door.
Inside was a single file.
A photograph.
And a small hospital bracelet.
The bracelet was blue.
I picked up the photograph.
It showed a little girl at around six years old.
Dark hair.
Brown eyes.
A small scar above her eyebrow.
I stared.
Isabela stared.
Lucía began to cry.
I couldn't speak.
Because the little girl in the photograph was wearing a necklace I remembered from my own childhood.
My mother had given it to me.
Before she disappeared.
I turned the photograph over.
There was one sentence written on the back.
Her name was never Camila.
Then the basement door slammed shut.
May you like
And from the hallway, a woman's voice called out—
“Valeria, don't believe Marcos.”
