Chapter 5 - THE EMPTY HOUSE
For several seconds, I stood in the doorway and stared at the photograph of my daughter.
The image had been printed on glossy paper.
Camila was walking down the front steps of her elementary school with her backpack hanging from one shoulder.
She was smiling at someone outside the frame.
A circle had been drawn around her head in black marker.
Beneath it were the words that made my knees weaken.
TELL HER OR WE WILL.
I called Camila's friend's mother before I called anyone else.
My fingers slipped twice on the screen.
She answered cheerfully.
"Hey, Mariana."
"Is Camila still with you?"
My voice sounded breathless.
"Yes."
"Can you put eyes on her right now?"
There was a pause.
"She's in the backyard with Sophie."
"Please check."
Her tone changed immediately.
"One second."
I heard footsteps and a sliding door open.
Then her voice softened.
"She's right here."
Air returned to my lungs.
"Don't let her leave with anyone except me."
"Mariana, what's wrong?"
"I can't explain yet."
"Do I need to call police?"
I looked at the overturned chair.
"Maybe."
That was when I noticed the blood.
Three drops on the tile near the pantry.
One more on the cabinet handle.
Fresh enough to shine.
My entire body went cold.
"Stay with her," I told Camila's mother.
"I'm serious."
"I will."
"Don't answer the door unless you know who it is."
"Okay."
I ended the call and dialed 911.
Then I forced myself to walk through the house without touching anything.
The living room was undisturbed.
The television was off.
One sofa cushion had fallen to the floor, but Camila was always knocking those down.
The hallway looked normal.
The bedroom door was open.
I entered slowly.
The bed had been stripped halfway.
The bottom dresser drawer was pulled out.
Sebastian's overnight bag was gone.
So was his passport.
The watch he always wore was missing from the nightstand.
My pulse hammered.
Was he fleeing?
Had someone taken him?
Had he staged this too?
The detective who arrived was named Leah Monroe.
She was in her forties, with tightly braided hair and a notebook she used more than her phone.
A patrol officer photographed the blood and the broken mug.
Another checked the backyard.
Detective Monroe stood at the kitchen island studying the photograph of Camila.
"Who lives here?"
"Me, my daughter, and my husband."
The word husband felt almost absurd.
"Name?"
I hesitated.
"Sebastian Morales."
I hated myself for saying it.
Monroe looked at me.
"You hesitated."
"We're newly married."
"When?"
"Yesterday."
Her eyebrows rose slightly.
"And where is he now?"
"I don't know."
"When did you last speak to him?"
"This morning."
"Was anything wrong?"
I had two choices.
Tell the police everything and risk opening a secret federal case I did not understand.
Or protect the man who had lied to me for three years.
I thought of Camila's face inside the black circle.
There was no longer room for protecting adults from consequences.
"Yes," I said.
Monroe's pen stopped.
"What was wrong?"
I took a breath.
"I think my husband is using his dead brother's identity."
The patrol officer nearest us looked over.
Monroe did not react.
"Start at the beginning."
So I did.
Not everything.
I left out Teresa's claim about Agent Price because I had no proof beyond her word.
But I told Monroe about the scar.
The wrist plate.
The medical examiner's report.
Kessler.
The photograph Teresa said had arrived before the wedding.
Monroe's expression became more serious with every sentence.
"Do you have the report?"
"Yes."
I retrieved the copy from my office.
She read the section about the orthopedic hardware.
"And the living brother had this surgery?"
"Sebastian did."
"The man you married claims to be Sebastian."
"Yes."
"But you believe he is Santiago."
"Yes."
"Your first husband."
"Yes."
"Who was declared dead in 2019."
"Yes."
She closed the folder slowly.
"This is one of the stranger Saturday afternoons I've had."
"I don't need commentary."
"That wasn't commentary."
Her eyes softened slightly.
"That was me acknowledging how much this is."
I looked away.
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be."
She pointed toward the blood.
"Do you know your husband's blood type?"
"O positive."
"We'll test it if we can get enough."
"How long will that take?"
"Not fast enough to help us tonight."
"Can you track his phone?"
"With exigent circumstances, maybe."
"There is blood in my kitchen and a threat against my child."
"I agree."
She made a call.
While she spoke, I looked again at the photograph.
The handwriting bothered me.
Not because I recognized it.
Because I did not.
The earlier message Teresa described had supposedly read Dead men shouldn't get married.
This one said Tell her or we will.
Whoever wrote it knew I still did not know the truth when they sent the first photograph.
Whoever wrote it also knew Santiago had not told me before the wedding.
That meant they were watching more than Camila's school.
They were watching our marriage.
Monroe ended the call.
"His phone is off."
"Can you see where it was last active?"
"We're working on it."
"What about his truck?"
"Plate is already entered."
I wrapped my arms around myself.
"I need to get my daughter."
"An officer will go with you."
"No."
"Mrs. Morales—"
"Lopez."
I snapped the word.
"My name is Mariana Lopez."
She nodded.
"Ms. Lopez, someone photographed your daughter and entered your home."
"Maybe my husband did this."
"Maybe."
"You don't believe that."
"I don't know enough to believe anything yet."
She glanced toward the blood.
"But I know caution is cheaper than regret."
I let the officer drive behind me to Camila's friend's house.
Camila ran out smiling.
Then she saw the police car.
Her face changed.
"Mom?"
I hugged her.
"Everything's okay."
The lie came naturally.
That terrified me.
"Why are police here?"
"Something happened at home."
"Is Dad okay?"
I could not answer immediately.
She noticed.
"Mom?"
"I don't know where he is right now."
Her eyes filled with fear.
"Did he leave?"
"No."
"Did someone take him?"
"I don't know."
She grabbed my hand.
"He promised he wasn't going anywhere."
The words broke something in me.
I crouched in front of her.
"Listen to me."
"What?"
"Whatever happens tonight, you did nothing wrong."
She looked confused.
"Why would I think I did?"
I almost laughed and cried at the same time.
Children could expose adult stupidity with one question.
"You're right."
I stood.
"Let's go."
Monroe advised us not to return home that night.
I took Camila to Elena's apartment instead.
Elena opened the door and immediately pulled us both inside.
"What happened?"
I waited until Camila was watching a movie in the bedroom.
Then I showed her the photograph.
Elena swore under her breath.
"Where is he?"
"Missing."
"Missing or gone?"
"I don't know."
"Did he take clothes?"
"An overnight bag."
"Passport?"
"Gone."
Elena stared at me.
"That sounds like gone."
"There was blood."
"His?"
"We don't know."
She paced to the window.
"Did you tell police everything?"
"Enough."
"Enough is dangerous right now."
"I know."
My phone rang.
Unknown number.
Elena looked at the screen.
"Don't answer."
I answered.
"Hello?"
Nothing.
Then breathing.
Slow.
Controlled.
"Santiago?"
The breathing stopped.
I heard traffic in the background.
Then his voice.
"Are you alone?"
My knees weakened.
It was him.
"Where are you?"
"Answer me."
"No."
My anger returned instantly.
"You don't get to give me instructions anymore."
"Mariana, are you alone?"
"Elena is here."
"Camila?"
"Safe."
He exhaled.
"Good."
"Where are you?"
"I can't tell you."
"Then don't call me."
"Please don't hang up."
His voice broke slightly.
"I need you to listen."
"I've been listening to lies for three years."
Elena touched my arm.
I pulled away.
"The blood in the kitchen," I said.
"Is it yours?"
Silence.
"Santiago."
He did not correct the name.
That nearly destroyed me.
"Some of it."
I closed my eyes.
"What happened?"
"Someone was waiting inside."
"Who?"
"I don't know."
"You expect me to believe that?"
"He wore a mask."
"Did you fight?"
"Yes."
"Why did you take your passport?"
Another pause.
"Because I knew this might happen."
"You packed a bag in advance?"
"Yes."
"Before our wedding?"
"Yes."
I covered my mouth.
Elena's face hardened.
"You stood beside me at the altar with an escape bag hidden in my house?"
"Mariana—"
"You married me knowing someone was watching our daughter."
"I thought I could end it."
"By doing what?"
"Finding Price."
I froze.
"Nolan Price?"
"You know his name."
It was not a question.
"Your mother told me."
He swore softly.
"You talked to her."
"And Kessler."
The line went silent.
Then Santiago said, "You need to stop."
I laughed.
"That is the wrong thing to say to me."
"I'm serious."
"So am I."
"Kessler doesn't understand what happened after the crash."
"Then explain it."
"Not on the phone."
"Of course not."
"Mariana."
"Where are you?"
He hesitated.
"South of town."
"That means nothing."
"It needs to."
"No."
My voice dropped.
"You have one chance to do something honest."
"I am trying to keep you alive."
"Then start by telling me whether my husband is Santiago Morales."
Elena stared at me.
For three seconds, all I heard was distant traffic through the phone.
Then he said, "Yes."
The word was quiet.
It struck harder than a shout.
I sat down.
"Say it again."
"I'm Santiago."
Tears blurred my vision.
"You let me bury you."
"I know."
"You let Camila mourn you."
"I know."
"You came into our house as your brother."
"I know."
"You let me fall in love with you again."
His breathing changed.
"I know."
"You married me."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because I'm selfish."
The answer stopped me.
"What?"
"Because I had spent three years telling myself I was protecting you."
His voice shook.
"And somewhere along the way, protection became the excuse I used for cowardice."
I closed my eyes.
"That doesn't fix it."
"I know."
"Stop saying that."
"I'm sorry."
"Where are you?"
"I can't bring this to you."
"It's already here."
I looked at the photograph in my hand.
"They put Camila's face in a circle."
He went silent.
Then his voice became frighteningly calm.
"What exactly did the message say?"
I told him.
He swore.
"What?"
"That wasn't the same person who sent the first photograph."
"How do you know?"
"Different phrase."
"That's your evidence?"
"The first sender used language from an old code."
"What code?"
"Price's."
A chill moved through me.
"You think Nolan Price sent the first photograph?"
"I think he may have been warning me."
"And the person who entered the house?"
"Someone else."
"Victor?"
Silence.
"Santiago."
"Victor Salazar is dead."
I stared at the wall.
"What?"
"He was killed in Mexico two years ago."
"Then who is doing this?"
His answer came slowly.
"That's what scares me."
The call disconnected.
I tried the number immediately.
A recorded voice said it was no longer in service.
Elena sat across from me.
Neither of us spoke.
Then someone knocked on the apartment door.
Three slow knocks.
Elena looked at me.
Camila's movie continued in the bedroom.
The knocking came again.
Elena approached the door without opening it.
"Who is it?"
A man's voice answered.
"Austin Police."
I looked through the peephole.
Detective Monroe stood in the hallway.
Beside her was a tall man in a dark suit I had never seen before.
When Elena opened the door, Monroe held up her badge.
"Ms. Lopez, this is Special Agent Aaron Bell with the FBI."
The man looked directly at me.
"We need to talk about your husband."
He paused.
May you like
"And about Nolan Price."
