PART 3 — THE MAN IN THE WHEELCHAIR
Lucía stared at the photograph until her eyes began to hurt.
Her father.
Alive.
Sitting in a wheelchair beside Ricardo.
For twenty years, she had believed she had buried him.
She remembered the funeral.
The black dress.
The flowers.
The priest's voice.
Her mother's trembling hands.
She remembered standing beside the grave and wondering why her father had left so suddenly.
Now everything she remembered felt like a carefully constructed lie.
Her phone buzzed again.
Another message appeared.
DON'T TRUST RICARDO. DON'T TRUST YOUR FATHER EITHER.
Lucía's fingers went numb.
She immediately called the number back.
It was no longer available.
She tried again.
Nothing.
She looked around the parking lot.
Every car suddenly seemed suspicious.
Every person walking past seemed to be watching her.
She started the engine and drove home.
But she didn't go directly there.
Instead, she stopped at a café three blocks away.
She needed to think.
Her mind kept returning to one question.
Why would Ricardo protect a man who was supposedly dead?
And why would he spend seventeen years secretly paying another woman?
The answer had to be connected.
Lucía opened the photograph again.
She zoomed in.
Her father was sitting in an old wheelchair.
Behind him was a wall.
There was a painting hanging above his head.
A landscape of mountains.
Lucía stared at it.
She recognized the painting.
It had belonged to her father.
When she was a child, it had hung in their old house.
After his death, Lucía had assumed it had been sold.
But it hadn't.
Someone had kept it.
She looked closer.
In the corner of the photograph, barely visible, was a small brass plaque.
Lucía could just make out a few letters.
HACIENDA S...
She immediately searched the phrase online.
One result appeared.
A private rehabilitation estate outside Cuernavaca.
The property belonged to a company called Sierra Vida Holdings.
Lucía searched the company.
The ownership records were hidden behind several corporate entities.
But one name appeared repeatedly.
Ricardo Salgado.
Her husband.
Lucía closed her eyes.
He hadn't simply been paying someone.
He had been maintaining an entire property.
For whom?
She knew.
Her father.
She drove home.
The apartment was empty.
Ricardo wasn't back yet.
Lucía went straight to his office.
She had never searched it before.
She had always respected his privacy.
Now she opened every drawer.
Invoices.
Contracts.
Construction plans.
Tax documents.
Nothing.
Then she noticed the bottom drawer was locked.
Lucía searched the desk.
No key.
She checked the bookshelf.
Nothing.
Finally, she remembered the briefcase.
She returned to the bedroom.
Inside the hidden pocket was the receipt for the ring.
The bank transfers.
And a small key.
She hadn't noticed it before.
It was attached to a plain metal tag.
17-B.
Lucía hurried back to the office.
The key fit the drawer.
Inside was a thick folder.
On the cover was one word.
MÉNDEZ.
Her heart began pounding.
She opened it.
The first page was a copy of a birth certificate.
Paola Méndez Rivas.
Lucía turned the page.
Another document.
Medical records.
Then an ultrasound.
Then a photograph of Paola in a hospital.
She was pregnant.
Lucía continued reading.
The father was listed as:
UNKNOWN.
She frowned.
That made no sense.
Then she found a handwritten note.
The child must never know who his biological father is.
Lucía's breathing stopped.
The next page was a DNA report.
She read the names.
Paola Méndez Rivas.
And—
Lucía's hands began to shake.
The second name was not Ricardo.
It was her father.
Julián Hernández.
Lucía dropped the paper.
“No…”
Her father was the father of Paola's unborn child?
That was impossible.
Her father was old when he supposedly died.
Paola was only in her thirties.
The dates didn't make sense.
Then Lucía noticed the date of the DNA test.
It had been performed six months earlier.
Her father wasn't simply alive.
He was still involved in this family.
Lucía heard the apartment door open.
She froze.
Ricardo was home.
“Lucía?”
She quickly shoved the documents back into the folder.
“I'm in the kitchen!”
His footsteps approached.
She closed the drawer.
Ricardo appeared in the doorway.
He smiled.
“Why are you home so early?”
“I wasn't feeling well.”
He studied her face.
“You've been crying.”
“No.”
He stepped closer.
“Are you sure?”
Lucía forced herself to smile.
“I'm just tired.”
Ricardo kissed her forehead.
Then he walked toward his office.
Lucía's heart hammered.
He stopped.
“Did you go through my things?”
Her blood ran cold.
“No.”
He stared at her.
For several seconds, neither spoke.
Then his expression softened.
“I trust you.”
Lucía almost laughed.
Trust.
The word felt like an insult.
That night, after Ricardo fell asleep, Lucía got out of bed.
She returned to the office.
The folder was gone.
Someone had taken it.
She searched everywhere.
Nothing.
Then she heard a noise behind her.
A floorboard creaked.
Lucía turned.
Ricardo was standing in the doorway.
He wasn't asleep.
He was holding the missing folder.
His face was expressionless.
“How much did you read?”
Lucía stared at him.
“Who is my father?”
Ricardo didn't answer.
“Where is he?”
Silence.
“Why are you paying Paola?”
Still nothing.
Lucía stepped closer.
“And why does her medical file contain my father's name?”
Ricardo's face finally changed.
Fear.
Real fear.
“You shouldn't have found that.”
“Tell me the truth.”
“I was trying to protect you.”
“From what?”
He looked toward the bedroom.
Then lowered his voice.
“From your father.”
Lucía's heart pounded.
“He's alive.”
Ricardo closed his eyes.
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“I can't tell you.”
“You've lied to me for seventeen years!”
“I had no choice.”
“You always have a choice.”
Ricardo looked at her.
“No, Lucía. I didn't.”
Then his phone rang.
He looked at the screen.
The color drained from his face.
Lucía saw the name.
PAOLA.
Ricardo answered.
“Hello?”
He listened.
Then his expression changed completely.
“What?”
He stood up.
“When?”
Silence.
Then:
“Is the baby safe?”
Lucía's heart stopped.
Ricardo hung up.
She stared at him.
“What happened?”
He looked at her.
“Paola disappeared.”
Lucía took a step backward.
“What?”
“She left the apartment.”
“And the baby?”
Ricardo didn't answer.
“Ricardo!”
He finally whispered:
“The baby is gone too.”
Then his phone vibrated again.
A message appeared.
He read it.
His face became completely white.
Lucía grabbed the phone from his hand.
The message contained only one sentence:
IF YOU WANT THE BABY BACK, BRING LUCÍA TO THE OLD HOUSE BEFORE MIDNIGHT.
Below it was an address.
Lucía recognized it immediately.
Her childhood home.
The house where her father had supposedly died.
