PART 5 — THE BABY WHO DISAPPEARED
I couldn't hear anything.
Not Ricardo.
Not Esteban.
Not even my own breathing.
I stared at the photograph lying on the floor.
My mother.
Esteban.
Ricardo.
And the baby.
A tiny newborn wrapped in a white blanket.
My hands began to shake.
“What did you just say?”
Ricardo looked at me.
His face was filled with guilt.
“The baby was yours.”
I laughed.
It wasn't a normal laugh.
It was the kind of laugh that comes when your mind refuses to accept what it is hearing.
“I'm thirty-nine years old.”
“I know.”
“I've only ever had one child.”
“Mateo.”
“Yes.”
Ricardo lowered his eyes.
“That's what you were told.”
My entire body went cold.
“What are you saying?”
Esteban smiled.
“Finally.”
He took a step closer.
“Now she knows.”
Ricardo turned toward him.
“Leave her alone.”
“You've protected her long enough.”
My father suddenly spoke.
“Esteban, stop.”
Esteban laughed.
“You're still giving orders?”
Julián looked exhausted.
“You promised.”
“I promised nothing.”
Then Esteban looked at me.
“Your father had a daughter.”
I swallowed.
“I am his daughter.”
“No.”
He pointed at the photograph.
“You were not the only child.”
I looked at the baby again.
“My mother had another child?”
Julián closed his eyes.
“Yes.”
The room seemed to spin.
“When?”
“Seventeen years ago.”
The same year I married Ricardo.
The same year Mateo was born.
I looked at Ricardo.
“Mateo?”
He nodded.
“Mateo is your son.”
Relief rushed through me for half a second.
Then confusion returned.
“Then who is the baby?”
Ricardo couldn't look at me.
Esteban answered.
“Your daughter.”
My knees nearly collapsed.
“A daughter?”
Julián nodded slowly.
“She was born six months before Mateo.”
I stared at him.
“That makes no sense.”
“It does if you understand what happened.”
My father looked toward the window.
“Your mother discovered that Esteban and Ricardo's father were using our company to move money. She found documents proving everything.”
“And the baby?”
“Your mother was pregnant.”
I covered my mouth.
“She didn't tell me.”
“You were seventeen. You were preparing to leave home.”
My father paused.
“She believed the baby would be used against you.”
“What happened?”
His voice became quieter.
“She gave birth in secret.”
I looked at Ricardo.
“And you knew?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“My father knew.”
Ricardo swallowed.
“He was involved with your father's business. When he discovered your mother had the evidence, he ordered someone to take the child.”
My heart stopped.
“Someone took my baby sister?”
Ricardo nodded.
“Your mother tried to stop them.”
“What happened to her?”
Silence.
“Tell me!”
Julián began crying.
“Your mother was taken too.”
I felt as though someone had punched me.
“Where?”
“We never found her.”
Esteban interrupted.
“That isn't true.”
Everyone turned toward him.
Esteban reached into his coat.
He pulled out a small photograph.
He placed it on the table.
My mother was standing beside a little girl.
The girl looked about three years old.
I stared.
Her face.
Her eyes.
There was something familiar.
Something I couldn't explain.
“Who is she?”
Esteban smiled.
“Your sister.”
I picked up the photograph with trembling hands.
“Where is she?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“Whether you're willing to cooperate.”
Ricardo stepped between us.
“Don't listen to him.”
Esteban laughed.
“You've been lying to her for seventeen years.”
Ricardo's voice cracked.
“I was trying to protect her.”
“You were trying to protect yourself.”
I turned toward Ricardo.
“What did you do with my sister?”
“Nothing.”
“Then why did you lie?”
“Because I was ordered to.”
“By whom?”
He looked at my father.
Julián's face was broken.
“By me.”
I stared at him.
“You?”
He nodded.
“I thought if everyone believed the child was dead, they would stop looking.”
I couldn't believe what I was hearing.
“You let me believe my sister never existed.”
“I was trying to keep her alive.”
“Where is she?”
My father didn't answer.
Esteban did.
“She is closer than you think.”
Then my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
A woman's voice whispered:
“Lucía?”
I froze.
I knew that voice.
Not because I had heard it recently.
Because I had heard it in childhood.
In old recordings.
In memories.
“Mom?”
Silence.
Then the voice began to cry.
“My little girl.”
I couldn't breathe.
“Where are you?”
“Listen carefully.”
I pressed the phone against my ear.
“Do not trust Esteban.”
I looked at him.
He was smiling.
My mother continued.
“And don't trust your father.”
My eyes filled with tears.
“Mom, where are you?”
“I can't tell you.”
“Please.”
“You have to find your sister first.”
“Where?”
She whispered an address.
I grabbed a piece of paper and wrote it down.
Then she said something that made my heart stop.
“She doesn't know she's your sister.”
The call ended.
I looked at Ricardo.
He was crying.
“You knew.”
He nodded.
“How long?”
“Seventeen years.”
“And you knew where she was?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because every time I tried, someone threatened to kill her.”
I couldn't speak.
Then a sound came from downstairs.
A car engine.
Esteban suddenly looked toward the window.
His smile disappeared.
“That's impossible.”
Ricardo looked at him.
“What?”
Esteban moved toward the stairs.
“They found us.”
“Who?”
He didn't answer.
A second later, the front door exploded inward.
Several armed men rushed into the house.
Everyone screamed.
The lights went out.
Someone grabbed my arm.
I heard Ricardo shouting my name.
Then a gunshot echoed through the hallway.
When the lights came back on, Esteban was gone.
My father was bleeding.
And Ricardo was standing over him.
But there was one thing missing.
The photograph of my sister.
I searched the floor desperately.
Nothing.
Then I noticed something beneath the table.
A small envelope.
My name was written on it.
Inside was a single sentence:
YOUR SISTER HAS BEEN LIVING UNDER YOUR NAME FOR SEVENTEEN YEARS.
I stared at the words.
Then my phone buzzed.
A photograph appeared on the screen.
It showed a young woman standing outside a school.
I knew her.
I had seen her before.
She was the woman who had helped me in the rain.
The woman carrying the baby.
The woman who had warned me about Ricardo's briefcase.
My sister had been standing across from me the entire time.
And she had known exactly who I was.
But the baby in her arms wasn't hers.
It belonged to someone else.
And whoever that child belonged to was the real reason Ricardo had spent seventeen years lying to me.
