Chapter 16 - Forty-Three Minutes
I wanted to call Mariana back.
Gabriel stopped me.
“She wants you emotional.”
“She watched my mother die.”
“Maybe.”
“She knew the exact number of minutes.”
“Maybe because someone told her.”
I hated logic when grief wanted rage.
We searched emergency records from the crash.
The official timeline said my mother’s vehicle left the road at 8:14 p.m.
First emergency call.
8:31.
Ambulance arrival.
8:46.
Declared dead.
8:57.
Forty-three minutes.
Mariana had been precise.
But there was something worse.
The first emergency call had not come from a passing driver.
It came from a pay phone twelve kilometers away.
Meaning someone at the scene had waited.
Someone had intentionally delayed help.
Dad read the report and sat down.
“I never saw this.”
“Why?”
“The police gave me a summary.”
“Who handled the case?”
A name appeared.
Commander Luis Montoya.
Héctor and Mariana’s cousin.
Of course.
The family had not merely controlled money.
They had controlled the investigation.
We reopened everything.
Then Esteban Cruz contacted Camila.
He wanted to meet.
Not her.
Me.
Dad opposed it.
I went anyway.
This time with federal investigators nearby.
Esteban chose a church.
Small.
Quiet.
He sat in the last pew.
Twenty-two years had changed him.
White hair.
Bent shoulders.
But I recognized the driver from the airport footage.
He looked at me and began crying.
“You have Isabel’s eyes.”
I sat beside him.
“Why did you leave her?”
His face collapsed.
“I didn’t.”
“Camila said someone called you away.”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“A hospital.”
“They told me my daughter had been hurt.”
“Camila?”
“Yes.”
“I drove there.”
“She wasn’t there.”
“By the time I understood, Isabel had already left.”
“With another driver.”
Esteban nodded.
“Who?”
“A temporary Vanguardia driver named Rafael.”
“Real name?”
“No idea.”
“What happened next?”
“I followed because Isabel had told me never to let anyone change the route.”
“Why?”
“She knew she was being watched.”
His hands shook.
“I saw her car ahead.”
“Then it swerved.”
“It hit the barrier.”
“Rolled.”
“Stopped.”
I could barely breathe.
“I reached her.”
“Yes.”
“Was she conscious?”
“Yes.”
“What did she say?”
Esteban began crying harder.
“She asked about you.”
I closed my eyes.
“What did she say?”
“She said, ‘Tell Valeria I chose the truth.’”
The sentence broke something inside me.
My mother’s letter.
Choose the truth.
Always.
“She gave me a briefcase.”
“The one buried with Lucía?”
“No.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
“The buried briefcase was Lucía’s.”
“Isabel’s was different.”
“Where is it?”
Esteban looked toward the altar.
“I gave it to Federico.”
“Why?”
“Isabel told me to.”
“What happened after that?”
“A car arrived.”
“Who?”
“Mariana.”
My skin went cold.
“She was alone?”
“No.”
“Héctor was with her.”
“And?”
“They had a man with them.”
“Rafael?”
“Yes.”
“What did you do?”
“I hid behind the embankment.”
“You left Mom?”
“I was bleeding.”
“I had no weapon.”
“They had guns.”
His shame was obvious.
“What did they do?”
“Mariana climbed into the wreck.”
My hands clenched.
“Did she hurt my mother?”
“No.”
That surprised me.
“She talked to her.”
“For how long?”
“Several minutes.”
“Could you hear?”
“Some.”
“What did they say?”
“Mariana asked where the briefcase was.”
“Isabel laughed.”
My eyes filled.
Of course she did.
Even dying, my mother had refused to give them what they wanted.
“What happened?”
“Héctor pulled Mariana away.”
“They searched the car.”
“They found nothing.”
“Then they left.”
“They left her alive?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because they thought she would die before help arrived.”
“And you?”
“I crawled back.”
“Why didn’t you call immediately?”
“I had no phone.”
“The road was empty.”
“I ran.”
“Eventually I found a pay phone.”
“That was the call.”
“Yes.”
I looked at him.
“You disappeared after the funeral.”
“Because Federico told me they were looking for me.”
“What happened to Lucía?”
Esteban closed his eyes.
“She refused to run.”
“She had the original ledger.”
“We planned to leave with Camila.”
“But Lucía wanted to retrieve one more file.”
“She never came home.”
“You knew she was buried at Sector Twelve?”
“Not until years later.”
“How?”
“Federico found a worker who saw the burial.”
“Why didn’t he go to police?”
“Because Commander Montoya still controlled the case.”
I looked at the church windows.
Everything had been fear.
Every silence.
Every lie.
Every bad decision.
“What about my mother’s briefcase?”
Esteban’s eyes opened.
“Federico hid it.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know.”
“He told me only one thing.”
“What?”
“If the blue box was ever found, the real evidence was somewhere nobody would destroy because they saw it every day.”
I frowned.
“What does that mean?”
Esteban looked at me.
“Federico said Arturo had been protecting the evidence for twenty-two years without knowing it.”
I stared at him.
“My father?”
May you like
“Yes.”
“He said the briefcase never left Grupo Vanguardia.”
