His name appeared written twelve times.
“I didn’t sign that,” he said.
“I know, daughter,” I replied.
And that was the first time she believed me without asking for an explanation.
When the officers entered, Paloma tried to regain her calm voice.
—I’m a doctor. You’re making a mistake.
An agent in a dark jacket looked at the baby, then at Esperanza, then at the leaves on the ground.
—Dr. Paloma Vázquez, you are detained to testify regarding forgery, deprivation of rights, trafficking of medical documents and whatever else may result.
“They have no idea who has my back,” Paloma said.
I picked up one of the leaves.
-Now yes.
The agent took the folder.
Paloma fixed her eyes on me as they put the handcuffs on her. She wasn’t smiling anymore. Her mouth was barely trembling.
—You’re not going to survive this, Mother.
Esperanza, still pale, took a step forward with the baby in her arms.
—She is not alone.
Nobody spoke for several seconds.
Outside, rain began to fall on the bougainvillea-covered patio. The smell of wet earth drifted in through the broken window. The candles before the Virgin of Guadalupe flickered as if the air, too, were weary.
The north crypt opened at 11:37 pm.
I didn’t go down alone. The agent, Julián, and Consuelo came with me. The underground passageway smelled of damp stone and old flowers. Each step creaked under my shoes. At the far end, Mother Inés’s coffin waited, covered in dust.
The agent carefully lifted the lid.
There were no remains inside.
There were boxes.
Boxes with women’s names. Boxes with receipts. Boxes with baby photos. Boxes with letters that never reached their recipients.
Above each of them was a note written with the same blue ink as the old photograph:
“If Caridad finds this, believe her. I couldn’t save them. She can.”
Consuelo burst into tears.
I couldn’t.
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