Chapter 4 - The Voice Behind the Door
"Sergio knows I'm here."
Then the call went dead.
"Lucía?"
Nothing.
I called back.
Straight to voicemail.
I tried again.
Same result.
My hands started shaking.
Through my apartment door, Alejandro called my name.
"Mariana? What's happening?"
I didn't answer him.
I sent Lucía a message.
Are you safe?
Delivered.
No reply.
Call me. Just send one word if you're okay.
Delivered.
Nothing.
I stared at the screen, fighting the urge to panic.
Maybe Sergio had simply arrived.
Maybe Lucía had hung up because she didn't want him hearing her.
Maybe she was safe.
But the fear in her voice hadn't sounded imaginary.
I opened the security camera again.
Alejandro was still outside.
He had stopped pacing.
He was staring at his phone.
Then his expression changed.
He answered a call.
I couldn't hear the other person, but I watched his face carefully.
"What?" he said.
Pause.
"No. I'm still here."
Another pause.
"Why would Sergio be there?"
My heart stopped.
I unlocked the deadbolt.
Then stopped myself before opening the door.
"Alejandro."
He turned.
"Who are you talking to?"
"My mother."
"Put her on speaker."
"What?"
"Speaker."
He hesitated.
That was enough to make me angry again.
"Do it."
He pressed the screen.
Teresa's voice filled the hallway.
"Mariana?"
"Where is Sergio?"
Silence.
Then:
"I don't know."
"Wrong answer."
"I don't appreciate your tone."
"And I don't appreciate finding my forged signature on a property document."
Alejandro's face changed.
"What forged signature?"
Teresa said nothing.
I continued.
"I also don't appreciate discovering a file system containing my name, Lucía Herrera's name, and my dead mother's name."
This time the silence was different.
Heavy.
Absolute.
Alejandro stared at the door.
"Your mother?" he asked.
"Yes."
Teresa finally spoke.
"Mariana, don't believe everything Lucía tells you."
My pulse jumped.
I hadn't said Lucía had told me.
"How did you know I'm talking to Lucía?"
No answer.
"Teresa?"
The call ended.
Alejandro looked at his phone.
"She hung up."
"I noticed."
"Mariana, open the door."
"No."
"Your mother's name is involved. This is bigger than my debt."
"That's exactly why I'm not opening the door."
"I want to help."
"You had five days to start being my husband."
His face tightened.
"That's fair."
I hadn't expected that.
He leaned against the opposite wall.
"I'm not leaving."
"Then sit there."
"I will."
And he did.
He sat on the hallway floor in his expensive trousers, back against the wall, phone in his hand.
A ridiculous part of me wanted to open the door.
Five days earlier, I had promised to share my life with him.
Now a few centimeters of reinforced wood separated us.
I hated how quickly love could become evidence.
I returned to my office.
Lucía still hadn't replied.
I studied the photograph she'd sent.
R-17 beside my name.
R-10 beside my mother's.
Her name had been Elena Vargas.
Four years earlier, she'd died after a sudden illness.
She had left me some savings, jewelry, and a small investment account.
Not my apartment.
I'd bought that myself.
So why would Teresa have a property file connected to my mother?
I enlarged the photograph.
There was another column partly visible.
Most of it had been cut off.
Beside R-10, I could make out:
Coyoacán / EV
Coyoacán.
Lucía had said her parents left her a small house there.
My mother had never owned a house in Coyoacán.
At least, not that I knew.
I opened my laptop and searched my mother's old digital records.
Taxes.
Bank statements.
Estate documents.
Most had been scanned after her death.
I searched "Coyoacán."
One result.
An old bank transfer.
The recipient:
Ortega Servicios Notariales.
I stared.
Ortega.
Daniel Ortega.
The notary who had called me.
The transfer was dated six years ago.
Two years before my mother died.
Amount:
18,500 pesos.
Description:
Document review.
I called Daniel Ortega immediately.
He answered on the third ring.
"Mariana?"
"You knew my mother."
Silence.
"Mr. Ortega?"
"Where are you?"
"At home."
"Are you alone?"
I looked toward the entrance.
"My husband is outside."
"Don't discuss this with him yet."
"Why?"
"Because I don't know what he knows."
My stomach tightened.
"What did my mother hire you for?"
Another pause.
"I think you should come here."
"No."
"Mariana—"
"Everybody keeps telling me things are too complicated for the phone. I'm done with that. Tell me."
He exhaled.
"Your mother came to me six years ago because she believed somebody was trying to obtain information about an inheritance."
"What inheritance?"
"A property."
"I didn't inherit property."
"No."
I waited.
Then he added:
"Because she sold it."
I stood.
"What?"
"Your mother owned a property in Coyoacán."
The room seemed to tilt.
"That's impossible."
"It was inherited from your grandfather."
"Why didn't I know?"
"She had reasons."
"What reasons?"
"She believed someone was targeting owners of debt-free properties through fraudulent loan arrangements."
My mouth went dry.
"Sergio?"
"I can't prove that."
"Teresa?"
He didn't answer.
That was an answer.
"What happened to the property?"
"Your mother sold it quickly."
"To whom?"
"A legitimate buyer. She accepted less than market value because she wanted the transaction completed before anyone could interfere."
"Where did the money go?"
"Some into investments. Some helped with your education. The rest remained in her estate."
I sat slowly.
Pieces of my life rearranged themselves.
My mother had helped me through university.
She'd always said the money came from years of saving.
Maybe some had.
Maybe not all.
"Did she know Teresa?"
"Not personally, as far as I know."
"Then why is my mother's name in Teresa's file?"
"I don't know."
"You're a notary. Guess."
"I don't want to guess about something this serious."
"Fine. What do you know?"
He hesitated.
"Six years ago, your mother brought me copies of letters she'd received."
"What letters?"
"Offers."
"For the property?"
"At first."
"And later?"
"Threats disguised as financial advice."
My skin prickled.
"What does that mean?"
"Someone claimed there were irregularities in the title and offered to solve them through a private financing company."
"Sergio's company?"
"I didn't know Sergio then."
"But you know him now."
"Yes."
"How?"
"He brought documents into my office three years ago."
"Lucía's?"
Silence.
"Daniel."
"Yes."
My chest tightened.
"You notarized forged documents?"
"No. I refused them."
"But Lucía lost her house."
"Another office processed the transaction."
"Which office?"
"I don't know. The records became complicated."
I closed my eyes.
Of course they did.
Everything around Sergio became complicated.
"Why did Teresa come to you today?"
"She believed I'd cooperate."
"Why?"
"Because she thought I wouldn't remember your mother's name."
That sentence chilled me.
"So Teresa knew about my mother."
"Apparently."
"Before I married Alejandro?"
"I can't answer that."
"But you suspect it."
"I suspect you need to protect yourself."
I almost laughed.
"I've figured that part out."
"I've already flagged the paperwork she brought me."
"What does that mean?"
"Nothing involving your apartment will be processed through my office."
"Through yours."
"Yes."
"But another office could?"
"If somebody has enough documents and is willing to commit fraud, they could try."
I looked at the remaining certified copy.
"What should I do?"
"First, secure every original document."
"Done."
"Second, document that you never signed the authorization Teresa presented."
"Can you send me a copy?"
A pause.
"Yes."
"Now."
"I'll email it."
My laptop chimed less than a minute later.
PDF.
I opened it.
The document looked official.
My name.
My address.
Property details.
A clause authorizing "preliminary financial evaluation."
And my signature.
Fake.
Good fake.
But fake.
Then I noticed something else.
Witness.
There was a signature beneath the witness line.
Alejandro Salgado.
My entire body went cold.
"Daniel."
"I'm here."
"My husband signed this."
"I know."
I couldn't speak.
"He signed as a witness," Daniel said.
"To my forged signature."
"Yes."
I ended the call.
Not because I wanted to.
Because suddenly I couldn't hear anything over the blood pounding in my ears.
I walked toward the front door.
Alejandro was still sitting outside.
I opened the security feed.
"Stand up."
He did.
"What's wrong?"
I sent the PDF to his phone.
His phone chimed.
He opened it.
I watched his face.
First confusion.
Then horror.
Then something worse.
Recognition.
"Mariana."
"You signed it."
"Listen—"
"You signed a document containing my forged signature."
"I didn't see your signature."
"That's impossible."
"It wasn't there."
I laughed once.
Sharp.
Empty.
"That's your defense?"
"It's the truth."
"When did you sign?"
"Three weeks ago."
Before the wedding.
"Where?"
"My mother's house."
"Who gave it to you?"
"Sergio."
"What did he tell you it was?"
"A confidentiality acknowledgment."
I stared through the camera.
"And you signed without reading it?"
"I read the page they showed me."
"What does that mean?"
"It wasn't this document."
I said nothing.
He stepped closer.
"Mariana, I swear. The page I signed didn't have your name on it."
"But your signature is here."
"Then they attached it."
"Convenient."
"I know how it sounds."
"No. I don't think you do."
He pressed his palm against the door.
"I would never knowingly witness your forged signature."
"Would you knowingly hide 1.8 million pesos in debt?"
He closed his eyes.
That landed.
"Would you knowingly hide a prenup your mother prepared?"
Silence.
"Would you knowingly let her into my apartment?"
Silence again.
"Would you knowingly sit beside me while your sister hit me and tell me not to make a scene?"
His hand dropped.
"Yes," he whispered.
At least he didn't lie.
"And that's the problem," I said.
My phone vibrated.
Lucía.
I grabbed it.
One message.
I'm safe.
I exhaled so hard my knees weakened.
Then another:
Sergio came to my building, but he didn't find me.
I typed:
Where are you?
Somewhere Teresa doesn't know.
Then:
I found something before I left.
An attachment arrived.
A scanned letter.
Old.
The paper was yellowed.
The date was six years earlier.
The recipient:
Elena Vargas.
My mother.
I opened it.
The letter was brief.
It referred to her Coyoacán property and offered "urgent assistance" resolving supposed title irregularities.
At the bottom was a company name.
Grupo Patrimonial Salgado.
Salgado.
My husband's family name.
I stared at it.
Then at Alejandro through the camera.
"Does your family own a company called Grupo Patrimonial Salgado?"
His face went blank.
"What?"
I repeated it.
Slowly.
His expression told me he genuinely didn't know.
"No."
"Think."
"My father had a property business years ago."
"What was it called?"
"I don't remember."
"Try."
He rubbed his forehead.
"Grupo Salgado something. I was in college."
My heart sank.
"Who ran it?"
"My father."
"And?"
He hesitated.
"My mother handled administration."
There it was.
My mother had been targeted by a company Teresa helped operate.
Years before I met Alejandro.
This wasn't a coincidence anymore.
Lucía sent another message.
There's more.
A photograph appeared.
My mother standing outside a building.
She was younger.
Angry.
Beside her stood Daniel Ortega.
Across from them—
Teresa.
I enlarged it.
No mistake.
Teresa.
My mother had known her.
Daniel had been wrong.
Or he'd lied.
I immediately called him.
No answer.
Again.
Nothing.
Third time.
Voicemail.
My phone buzzed.
Lucía.
Your mother didn't just sell the house to escape them. She investigated them.
Then:
She collected evidence.
I typed:
Where is it?
Lucía replied:
That's what Teresa has been looking for.
I looked around my apartment.
Suddenly the missing deed felt secondary.
Why had Teresa really come here?
Why had she spent forty minutes inside?
Maybe she hadn't been searching for my property documents.
Maybe she'd been searching for something my mother had left behind.
I called out through the door.
"Alejandro."
"Yes?"
"When your mother came here yesterday, where did she go?"
"The office."
"Anywhere else?"
He thought.
"Your bedroom."
"Our bedroom."
"Yes."
"What did she do?"
"I don't know. She told me to find my tax folder."
"How long was she alone?"
"Maybe ten minutes."
My stomach tightened.
I walked into the bedroom.
Closet.
Drawers.
Jewelry box.
Everything looked normal.
Then I remembered something.
My mother's belongings.
After she died, I had kept one wooden box of things I couldn't throw away.
Photographs.
Letters.
Her old watch.
A small Bible.
It was stored on the highest shelf of my closet.
I reached up.
Pulled it down.
The box felt lighter.
I opened it.
Photographs.
Watch.
Bible.
Letters.
Then I noticed the bottom lining had been lifted.
There was a hidden compartment.
Empty.
Except for one folded piece of paper.
I had never known the compartment existed.
I unfolded the paper.
My mother's handwriting.
Only one sentence:
Mariana, if this compartment is empty, someone found the recordings before you did.
My breath caught.
Recordings.
Not documents.
Recordings.
I turned the box over.
Nothing.
Then something rattled inside the Bible.
I opened it.
A tiny brass key fell onto the bed.
A number was engraved on it.
314.
I photographed it and sent it to Lucía.
Do you know what this opens?
Her reply came immediately.
Yes.
Then another.
Your mother rented a private storage locker under another name.
I stared.
Where?
Lucía sent an address.
It was less than twenty minutes away.
Then she added:
Mariana, don't tell anyone. Not even Alejandro.
I looked toward the entrance.
My husband was still outside.
For the first time, I understood something clearly.
Teresa hadn't become interested in me because I'd married her son.
She had been interested in me before that.
Maybe long before.
I put the key in my pocket.
Then my phone rang.
Daniel Ortega.
I answered.
"Daniel?"
He sounded terrified.
"Mariana, don't go to locker 314."
I froze.
"I never told you about the locker."
Silence.
A door creaked on his side of the call.
Then Daniel whispered:
"I know."
"How?"
His breathing became uneven.
"Because I was there when your mother filled it."
My hand tightened around the phone.
"What did she put inside?"
Daniel didn't answer.
Instead, I heard another voice behind him.
A woman's voice.
Calm.
Familiar.
"Tell her, Daniel."
I stopped breathing.
Daniel whispered my name.
May you like
Then Teresa took the phone.
"Mariana, if you open locker 314, you're going to learn why your mother was really afraid of me."
