Chapter 13 - THE VOICE FROM TWENTY-THREE YEARS AGO
The safe was hidden behind an old painting in Teresa’s bedroom.
Andrés had known about it since childhood.
He had never known the combination.
The code was his birthday.
Inside were deeds.
Letters.
Cash.
Old photographs.
And a tiny cassette tape.
He found an old recorder at a secondhand electronics shop.
That night he sat alone in the dining room.
Pressed PLAY.
Static.
Then Raúl’s voice.
Drunk.
Young.
Broken.
“Teresa, I know what you think.”
Andrés’s hands tightened.
“I know what I did.”
Long pause.
“I hit Miguel.”
Andrés stopped breathing.
“But he was already hurt.”
Another pause.
“He ran into the road because he was scared.”
Scared of what?
The tape crackled.
“We argued at Valdés’s office.”
Valdés.
The notary.
Ernesto Valdés.
César’s father.
Andrés leaned closer.
“Miguel found out Ernesto was forging deeds. He said he was going to the police.”
Andrés’s pulse raced.
“Ernesto hit him. Bad. Miguel ran. I followed.”
Raúl began crying.
“I was drunk. I hit him with the truck.”
Static.
“But Ernesto told me what to say.”
Andrés stared into the darkness.
“I thought Miguel was dead. Ernesto checked him.”
Raúl sobbed.
“He was still breathing.”
Andrés’s stomach turned.
Then came the sentence that changed everything.
“Ernesto told me to leave him there.”
Andrés stopped the tape.
Couldn’t breathe.
His father had survived the impact.
He might have lived.
But Ernesto Valdés had abandoned him.
Maybe prevented help.
Maybe worse.
Andrés called Javier.
Within forty-eight hours, the prosecutor’s office reopened the old case.
Ernesto Valdés was seventy-two.
Retired.
Living comfortably in Ajijic.
He denied everything.
Then investigators searched archived records.
They found property fraud linked to Valdés stretching back decades.
Widows.
Older adults.
Disputed inheritances.
Forged signatures.
Teresa had not been a random target.
Her family had crossed Valdés before.
And César had inherited both the business and the grudge.
Mateo began talking when prosecutors offered to consider cooperation.
He blamed Renata.
Then César.
Then his uncle.
Then everybody except himself.
César said nothing.
Renata said even less.
Until Andrés received a request.
She wanted to see him.
His attorney advised against it.
Salgado advised against it.
Teresa said, “Go.”
Andrés looked at her.
“Why?”
“Because some doors need to be opened before you can close them.”
So Andrés went.
Renata entered the visitation room wearing gray jail clothes.
No makeup.
Hair tied back.
She looked smaller.
Human.
Dangerously human.
They sat across the glass.
Picked up the phones.
For several seconds, neither spoke.
Then Renata said, “You look tired.”
“So do you.”
She smiled faintly.
“Did your mother survive?”
“You know she did.”
“I heard.”
“Why did you shoot her?”
Renata’s smile vanished.
“I panicked.”
“You aimed.”
“Andrés—”
“You aimed at her.”
“She ruined everything.”
“No.”
He leaned closer to the glass.
“You did.”
Renata’s eyes filled.
“You still don’t understand.”
“Then explain.”
She looked around.
Then whispered, “Mateo wasn’t the one who chose your mother.”
Andrés went still.
“What?”
“It wasn’t César either.”
“Who?”
Renata stared at him.
“The person who gave us Teresa’s financial information.”
“Who?”
“You’ve been talking to him since the night you came home.”
Andrés felt a cold sensation crawl up his spine.
May you like
Renata smiled.
“Ask Dr. Molina.”
