Chapter 8 - WHERE HE PROPOSED
Santiago proposed to me in a place nobody else would have considered romantic.
A public library.
Not even the beautiful downtown branch.
The old neighborhood branch near my first apartment, with scratched wooden tables and fluorescent lights that buzzed like insects.
I was twenty-four.
He had been late meeting me for dinner.
I was angry enough to ignore him when he walked in carrying a copy of One Hundred Years of Solitude.
He placed the book in front of me and told me to open to page 143.
A ring had been tied to a blue ribbon inside.
He knelt between the biography shelf and a printer that had been out of order for six months.
I laughed so hard I cried before I said yes.
For years, we told people he chose the library because I loved books.
The truth was more specific.
That branch was where I had studied for my teaching exams.
Santiago used to bring me coffee there every night.
It was where our adult life had started to feel possible.
Now Sebastian's note was sending me back.
The branch had been renovated after the pandemic.
The old carpet was gone.
The biography shelves had moved.
The broken printer had been replaced by a row of computers.
But the table where Santiago had proposed was still there.
I recognized a long scratch shaped like a lightning bolt.
Detective Monroe accompanied me.
Agent Bell came too.
I had argued against his presence.
Monroe overruled me.
"This is potentially federal evidence," she said.
"And potentially evidence Sebastian told us not to give Price."
Bell's jaw tightened.
"I'm not Price."
"You work for the same institution."
"That doesn't make me the same man."
"It made it easy for someone to bury this for three years."
He accepted that without another argument.
The librarian on duty was named Mrs. Patel.
She remembered me because she had been there the night Santiago proposed.
Her eyes widened when I explained that we needed access to old storage areas.
"This is about Santiago?"
I had forgotten how many people knew the story of his death.
"Yes."
She looked at my wedding ring.
She had probably seen the announcement online.
I could imagine the questions.
She did not ask them.
"Tell me what you need."
I walked to the old proposal table.
"He put the ring in a book."
"Garcia Marquez," Mrs. Patel said immediately.
I stared at her.
She smiled sadly.
"I remember because you almost screamed."
"Do you still have that copy?"
"Probably not the same physical copy."
She checked the catalog.
The branch owned three editions.
One older hardcover had been moved to storage because of damage.
My pulse quickened.
"Can we see it?"
Mrs. Patel led us to a back room.
Boxes of withdrawn books lined metal shelves.
She found the hardcover in a bin marked REPAIR OR DISCARD.
The dust jacket was gone.
The spine was cracked.
I opened to page 143.
Nothing.
I felt foolish.
Bell said, "Maybe the page number changed by edition."
I looked at him.
"He wasn't telling us to find the ring again."
"Then what?"
I closed my eyes and replayed the proposal.
Santiago had told me to open to page 143.
Why 143?
At the time, I assumed it was random.
But Sebastian had known the proposal story.
Both brothers had teased Santiago about choosing a library.
What could only I find?
I looked at the call number sticker.
FIC GAR.
Then I remembered something else.
After I said yes, Santiago had taken me outside behind the library.
There was a mural on the brick wall.
He had scratched our initials into the underside of a metal bench.
M + S.
143.
The number was not a page.
It was the street address of my first apartment.
143 Willow Bend.
"Oh my God."
Monroe looked at me.
"What?"
"The number."
"143?"
"My old apartment."
Bell frowned.
"You think the second drive is there?"
"The building was torn down years ago."
"Then what remained?"
I stared toward the window.
"The mailbox."
Santiago had bought an antique brass mailbox from the landlord when the building was demolished.
I thought he was being sentimental.
For years, it hung in our garage as decoration.
After Santiago's death, I packed it with his belongings.
I had not seen it in a long time.
"Where is it now?" Monroe asked.
I whispered, "My storage closet."
We drove to my house with police ahead of us.
The crime-scene team had already processed the kitchen.
Yellow tape still marked the doorway.
Entering felt wrong.
I could still see the broken mug in my mind.
We went directly to the garage.
The storage closet was packed with Christmas bins, Camila's old stroller, camping equipment, and boxes I had avoided opening since 2019.
The brass mailbox sat on the top shelf beneath a tarp.
My hands shook as I brought it down.
The front still displayed the faded numbers 143.
Bell put on gloves.
"May I?"
I almost said no.
Then I nodded.
He opened the front flap.
Empty.
Monroe examined the back.
"There are screws here."
The rear panel had been replaced at some point.
Bell used a screwdriver from the garage.
When the metal plate came loose, a small black flash drive fell onto the workbench.
Nobody spoke.
I stared at it.
This tiny object had been hidden in my house for years.
Santiago had probably walked past it hundreds of times after assuming Sebastian's identity.
He had never known.
Sebastian had trusted me to hide evidence without knowing I was hiding it.
That realization made my chest tighten.
Monroe bagged the drive.
Bell said, "We need to image it before opening anything."
"Who is we?" I asked.
"Forensics."
"FBI?"
"Yes."
"No."
Bell stared at me.
"Mariana."
"Sebastian's note specifically said not to trust Price."
"I am not Price."
"And it said not to trust Teresa."
"Do you trust her?"
I looked away.
"I don't know."
"Then the note was written by a frightened man who may not have understood the whole situation."
"He understood enough to hide two copies."
Monroe stepped between us verbally before physically becoming necessary.
"We'll make two forensic images."
Bell looked at her.
"One with APD."
"And one with the Bureau."
"Chain of custody—"
"Can be documented."
She turned to me.
"You don't get to keep evidence in your purse."
"I wasn't asking to."
"Your face was."
Despite everything, I almost smiled.
Bell agreed reluctantly.
While they documented the mailbox, I wandered toward the shelves.
A plastic tub labeled SANTIAGO sat near the floor.
I had packed it in the first month after the funeral.
Inside were clothes I could not throw away, his favorite baseball cap, old birthday cards, and the framed dealership article.
I lifted the frame.
Something rattled behind it.
My skin prickled.
I turned it over.
The backing had come loose.
Inside was a small folded piece of paper.
I looked toward Monroe and Bell.
They were still focused on the evidence bag.
I opened the paper.
It contained three handwritten names.
Victor Salazar.
Nolan Price.
Teresa Morales.
Beside Teresa's name was one word.
PAID.
My vision blurred.
I read it again.
Paid.
I slipped the paper into my pocket before anyone noticed.
I hated myself immediately.
But I could no longer decide whom to trust.
That evening, Monroe called from the forensic lab.
The first drive had been encrypted.
The second drive used the same encryption.
"Can you break it?" I asked.
"Eventually."
"How eventually?"
"We're working on it."
"That phrase should be illegal."
"You have a better password?"
I almost said no.
Then I remembered page 143.
The proposal.
One Hundred Years of Solitude.
Santiago used the same six-digit passcode for years before I forced him to change it.
The date of our first kiss.
041209.
I gave it to her.
Ten minutes later, she called back.
"It opened."
My heart slammed against my ribs.
"What's on it?"
"Spreadsheets, scanned checks, photos, audio files."
"Names?"
"A lot."
"Teresa?"
Silence.
"Detective."
"Yes."
I closed my eyes.
"She's in there."
"Yes."
"Paid by who?"
"A company tied to Charles Vale."
My stomach dropped.
"How much?"
Monroe answered carefully.
"Seventy-five thousand dollars."
I felt cold all over.
"When?"
"Two weeks before the crash."
The note in my pocket suddenly felt heavy enough to drag me through the floor.
"Why would Vale pay Santiago's mother?"
"We don't know yet."
I looked toward the window.
A car passed slowly outside Elena's building.
"There's more," Monroe said.
"What?"
"One of the audio files is labeled TERESA_10-17-19."
"The day before the crash."
"Yes."
"What's in it?"
Monroe hesitated.
"You need to hear it in person."
"Tell me."
"Mariana—"
"Tell me."
Her voice dropped.
"It's your mother-in-law talking to Charles Vale."
My hand tightened around the phone.
May you like
"And she tells him exactly where Santiago and Sebastian will be the next night."
