“Rosa saw it. She came to me. She said your father fell after drinking coffee in the study. She said Isabella was there. I didn’t believe her at first. God forgive me, I didn’t believe her.”
Valeria’s face is pale.
“My mother left Monterrey when I was little. She always said we had to stay away from powerful people.”
You turn to Isabella.
“Did you know Rosa?”
“I have no idea who this woman is.”
But she says it too fast.
You have spent your life negotiating with men who lie for profit. You know the difference between confusion and defense. Isabella is not confused.
She is calculating how much damage has already been done.
Your mother leans toward Valeria.
“I hid the letter,” she whispers. “I couldn’t trust anyone. After Rosa ran, they watched me. Then my mind started failing. But I hid it.”
Your pulse pounds in your ears.
“Where?”
Doña Carmen looks around the room, suddenly frightened.
“The music,” she says.
Then her gaze drifts toward the old piano in the corner.
The piano has been in your family for decades. Your mother used to play boleros there when you were small. After your father died, she stopped touching it, and it became another beautiful object in a house full of beautiful dead things.
You cross the room.
Isabella moves before you reach it.
“No,” she says.
It is one word.
Too sharp.
Too real.
You look at her.
“What are you afraid I’ll find?”
She lifts her chin.
“I’m afraid you’re humiliating yourself.”
You ignore her and open the piano bench.
Inside are old sheet music books, yellowed photographs, and a velvet pouch containing keys you don’t recognize. You search with shaking hands, but there is no letter.
Doña Carmen begins humming softly.
Valeria turns to her.
“What song?”
Your mother hums again.
Valeria recognizes it immediately.
“Solamente Una Vez.”
You pull out the sheet music.
At first, it looks ordinary.
Then you notice one page is thicker than the others.
You turn it over and find the backing has been glued unevenly.
Your hands tremble as you peel it open.
Inside is a sealed envelope.
Isabella lunges.
Valeria steps in front of her.
This time, Isabella does not slap her.
Because you are already looking at your sister with a coldness you have never felt in your own face before.
“Don’t,” you say.
She stops.
You open the envelope.
Inside are copies of bank transfers, handwritten notes, and a letter written by Rosa Álvarez.
The handwriting is careful and frightened.
You read the first lines aloud, but your voice nearly fails.
Doña Carmen, I am writing this because if something happens to me, you must know the truth. Señor Alejandro did not die of a natural heart attack. I saw Isabella put something in his coffee after he told her he was removing her access to company accounts.
Valeria covers her mouth.
Your mother closes her eyes.
