My eyes went dry, fixed on those letters of a dead woman who had waited years underground for someone to finish what she started.
At dawn, they took Paloma away.
They also sealed the San Ángel clinic and requested a warrant to search other properties linked to the foundation. Esperanza and her three children were moved to a secure room inside a convent in Puebla.
She did not allow anyone to separate the newborn from her arms, not even to change his blanket.
Before leaving, he handed me the medical tape.
“Why did it have his name?” he asked me.
I looked at the black ink.
Charity Salgado.
It was not a proprietary firm.
It was a threat.
Paloma had marked the baby with my name because she planned to bury me in the crypt and blame me for everything.
The fake folder, my seal, my supposed authorizations, the prepared envelopes: each piece was ready to turn Mother Caridad into the woman who sold the silence of the convent.
Esperanza’s youngest son had not arrived to close the secret.
He had arrived as bait.
And I almost took the bait.
That afternoon, when the convent was empty of patrols, I went into the office alone. The chair was still turned upside down. Paloma’s briefcase was gone. On the floor lay a dry drop of red wax, broken in two like a shattered seal.
I picked up the rosary from the desk.
The hollow cross weighed less without the memory inside.
On the wall, the Virgin of Guadalupe was still leaning, the frame twisted from the morning’s blow. I straightened it with both hands.
Then I looked toward the hallway where Esperanza had first said, “I think I’m pregnant. Again.”
There was no crying.
No key clicked.
All that remained was the empty crib by the window, the folded medical tape on the desk, and an unlit candle in front of the Virgin, leaving a trail of black smoke that slowly rose until it disappeared into the ceiling.
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