PART 2 — “The Marks on Her Neck Were Only the Beginning”
For three seconds, nobody moved.
The priest stood frozen beside the altar.
The mourners stared at Mariana’s body.
And Cristóbal looked at me as though I had just torn open the one secret he had spent days trying to bury.
I kept my hand beneath Mariana’s lace collar.
The bruises were unmistakable.
Five dark marks curved around the side of her throat.
I had seen strangulation injuries before.
Too many times.
But seeing them on my own daughter was different.
My knees nearly gave out.
“Call the police,” I said.
My voice sounded strangely calm.
Cristóbal immediately shook his head.
“Teresa, you don't understand what you're seeing.”
“I was an emergency nurse for thirty years.”
I looked him straight in the eyes.
“I understand exactly what I'm seeing.”
One of the mourners pulled out her phone.
Another whispered that the police were already being called.
Cristóbal suddenly stepped toward the coffin.
“Everyone needs to remain calm.”
“Don't come near her.”
My voice stopped him.
He stared at me.
Then he smiled.
It was the smallest smile imaginable.
But it terrified me more than his panic had.
“You're grieving,” he whispered. “You're imagining things.”
“No.”
I pointed toward Mariana's throat.
“I'm remembering.”
The funeral home director approached nervously.
“Mrs. Alvarez, perhaps we should close the coffin until—”
“No.”
I turned toward him.
“Nobody touches her.”
Then the front doors opened.
Two police officers entered.
Behind them was a tall man in a dark gray coat.
“Teresa.”
I recognized him immediately.
Diego Herrera.
My late husband's oldest friend.
And one of the few people I trusted without hesitation.
He crossed the room without looking at anyone else.
His eyes went directly to Mariana.
Then to the bruises.
His expression hardened.
“Who prepared the body?”
The funeral director raised his hand.
“I did.”
“Who authorized the cremation?”
He pointed toward Cristóbal.
“Her husband.”
Diego turned.
“Mr. Ortega.”
Cristóbal swallowed.
“Yes?”
“You're going to step away from the coffin.”
“I have done nothing wrong.”
“I didn't accuse you of anything.”
Diego's voice was quiet.
“That is why you should have no problem stepping away.”
Cristóbal didn't move.
The two officers moved closer.
Finally, he stepped backward.
Diego leaned toward Mariana's body.
He examined the bruising without touching it.
Then he looked at me.
“I told you not to let them cremate her.”
“What did you find?”
“Not here.”
His answer chilled me.
“What does that mean?”
“Someone has been working very hard to make Mariana's death look natural.”
I stared at him.
“Who?”
Diego looked toward Cristóbal.
“We don't know yet.”
Cristóbal suddenly laughed.
A strange, brittle sound.
“This is insane.”
Diego didn't respond.
Instead, he asked the funeral director another question.
“When did you receive the body?”
“Yesterday morning.”
“Who brought it?”
The director hesitated.
“Mr. Ortega.”
Diego's eyes narrowed.
“And where was the body before that?”
“At the hospital.”
“Who signed the release?”
“I have the paperwork.”
“Bring it.”
The director disappeared.
Cristóbal suddenly approached me.
His face was pale.
“Teresa, please.”
I stepped away.
“You lied to me.”
“I didn't.”
“You told me Mariana died of cardiac arrest.”
“That was what the doctors believed.”
“No.”
I shook my head.
“You told me she wanted to be cremated.”
“I thought she did.”
“You told me her death was sudden.”
“It was.”
“You told me there was no reason for an autopsy.”
Cristóbal's eyes hardened.
“Because there wasn't.”
I stared at him.
Then I said quietly:
“Then why are you afraid of one?”
His mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
Before he could answer, the funeral director returned with a folder.
Diego opened it.
His expression changed.
“What?”
I stepped closer.
“What is it?”
He showed me the release form.
There was a signature.
A doctor's signature.
But beneath it was something else.
A handwritten note.
Diego read it silently.
Then he looked at me.
“Teresa…”
“What does it say?”
He hesitated.
“‘Do not release until toxicology is completed.’”
My stomach dropped.
“Then why was she released?”
Nobody answered.
Diego turned toward Cristóbal.
“Who gave you permission to take her?”
Cristóbal's face had lost all color.
“I…”
His phone suddenly rang.
He looked at the screen.
For the first time, genuine terror crossed his face.
He rejected the call.
A second later, a message appeared.
He read it.
Then he looked at me.
I didn't know what the message said.
But Veronica did.
She had been standing silently beside me.
Suddenly she whispered:
“That's the man from Mommy's house.”
Everyone turned.
Cristóbal froze.
I knelt beside my granddaughter.
“What man?”
“The man Mommy was scared of.”
“Did you see him?”
She nodded.
“What did he look like?”
She closed her eyes.
“He had a silver watch.”
Cristóbal instinctively covered his left wrist.
My eyes dropped.
A silver watch.
Diego noticed too.
He reached for Cristóbal's arm.
Cristóbal jerked away.
“Don't touch me!”
The officers immediately restrained him.
Then Veronica began crying.
I held her.
“What is it, sweetheart?”
She pointed toward the funeral home's rear hallway.
“He's here.”
My heart stopped.
“Who?”
She whispered:
“The other man.”
At that exact moment, the lights went out.
The funeral home plunged into darkness.
Someone screamed.
A door slammed somewhere behind us.
And then I heard footsteps running toward the back exit.
Diego shouted:
“Stay with the child!”
Then he disappeared into the darkness.
I held Veronica tightly.
And in the darkness, she whispered into my ear:
“Grandma…”
“I'm here.”
“Mommy says…”
She began trembling.
“She hid something in our house.”
“What?”
Her answer came barely above a whisper.
“Under my bed.”
