Chapter 3: The House My Father Left Behind
I hadn't seen the house in eight years.
But I still remembered the sound of the front door.
The old wooden door always made the same noise when my father opened it.
A long, tired creak.
When I was a child, I used to run toward that sound.
Because it meant my father was home.
It meant dinner.
It meant safety.
It meant my family was still together.
Now, standing across the street from that same house as the sun rose over Guadalajara, I felt none of those things.
Only fear.
The house looked smaller than I remembered.
The white paint had faded.
The garden where my mother grew roses was covered in weeds.
The windows were dark.
Empty.
Like nobody had loved this place in years.
But I knew someone had been here recently.
The front gate was unlocked.
That alone was strange.
My father had warned me.
Find the old house before Mauricio does.
I had spent the entire night walking through side streets, avoiding main roads, keeping the backpack hidden under my jacket.
I was exhausted.
Hungry.
Terrified.
But I couldn't stop.
Not anymore.
Too many people were hiding things from me.
My father.
Mauricio.
Maybe even my mother.
I crossed the street slowly.
Every step felt like I was walking back into my childhood.
I remembered my mother sitting on the front porch.
I remembered my father teaching me how to fix a broken bicycle.
I remembered running through the hallway while they laughed.
Those memories hurt.
Because I had spent years believing they were all I had left.
But now I knew there was something else.
A secret.
I reached the front door.
The key my father gave me felt cold in my hand.
I inserted it into the lock.
It turned easily.
The door opened.
The smell hit me first.
Dust.
Old wood.
And something else.
Something familiar.
My mother's perfume.
My chest tightened.
I stepped inside.
“Mom?””
The word escaped before I could stop it.
Of course nobody answered.
The living room was exactly how I remembered it.
The old couch.
The bookshelf.
The family pictures.
Except one thing was different.
Someone had searched the place.
Drawers were open.
Books were scattered.
The cushions were ripped apart.
Someone had already been here.
And they weren't looking for memories.
They were looking for something.
I walked deeper into the house.
The floor creaked beneath my feet.
Every sound made me turn.
I expected someone to appear.
A criminal.
A stranger.
My father.
But the house remained silent.
I pulled out my mother's notebook.
The sentence kept repeating in my head.
“The proof is hidden where Diego's first memory began.””
My first memory.
I looked around.
Where did my first memory begin?
Then I saw it.
The hallway.
At the end of it was a small wooden door.
My childhood room.
I hadn't entered that room since the day my father took me away.
I walked toward it.
Slowly.
My hand touched the doorknob.
For a moment, I was eleven again.
A scared child standing outside his bedroom.
Waiting for his mother to tell him everything would be okay.
I opened the door.
The room was frozen in time.
My old bed was still there.
My toy shelf.
My drawings on the wall.
A small wooden airplane my father made for me.
I picked it up.
The memory almost broke me.
My father had spent three nights making that airplane.
He told me:
“Anything made with love can fly.””
I sat on the edge of the bed.
For a moment, I forgot everything.
The kidnapping.
The criminals.
The lies.
Then I noticed something.
The airplane wasn't covered in dust.
Someone had touched it recently.
I turned it over.
A small crack was visible underneath.
Inside the crack was a tiny piece of paper.
My heart started racing.
I carefully pulled it out.
Only three words were written.
*Look beneath home.*
I frowned.
Beneath home?
I looked around the room.
Then I remembered something.
When I was little, my mother used to say:
“Home isn't where you sleep, Diego. Home is where the people who love you are.””
The place where I felt safest.
My hiding place.
I moved toward the corner behind my old bookshelf.
When I was six, my father built a small wooden panel there.
My secret place.
I used to hide candy there.
Letters.
Little treasures.
My parents knew about it.
Nobody else did.
I moved the bookshelf.
Behind it was the wooden panel.
My hands shook as I opened it.
Inside was a small metal box.
My mother's box.
I knew immediately.
Because she kept one just like it in her bedroom.
I opened it.
Inside were documents.
Photographs.
A USB drive.
And a letter.
This one was not written to me.
The envelope said:
*For Beatriz Alcántara.*
I froze.
My mother had been connected to Beatriz.
Before everything happened.
I opened the documents.
They were financial records.
Bank transfers.
Contracts.
Signatures.
And at the bottom of several pages was one name.
Mauricio Alcántara.
The same name.
The same man.
The same betrayal.
Then I saw something that made my hands go numb.
A document dated two weeks before my mother died.
It was a report.
A private investigation.
My mother's handwriting was written across the top.
“Evidence of attempted murder.””
I stopped.
Attempted murder?
My mother wasn't just investigating corruption.
She believed someone wanted her dead.
A sound suddenly came from downstairs.
The front door.
Someone had entered.
I quickly grabbed the documents and shoved them into my jacket.
Footsteps moved through the hallway.
Slow.
Confident.
Whoever it was wasn't afraid.
A man's voice called out.
“Diego.””
My blood froze.
I recognized the voice.
Raúl.
My father.
I stepped out of the room.
He was standing in the hallway.
His face looked exhausted.
Like he hadn't slept in days.
“You shouldn't be here,” he whispered.
I laughed bitterly.
“That's funny.””
He looked at me.
“Diego—”
“No.””
I held up the documents.
“You knew.””
His expression changed.
“You found it.””
“You knew my mother was investigating Mauricio.””
Silence.
My father looked down.
“Yes.””
The answer hurt.
Even though I expected it.
“How long?””
He didn't answer.
“How long did you know?””
“Since before your mother died.””
My anger exploded.
“You let me believe you abandoned us!””
His face tightened.
“I was trying to keep you alive.””
“By leaving me?””
“By disappearing.””
I stepped closer.
“You don't get to call that protection.””
His eyes became wet.
“I watched you from far away.””
I froze.
“What?””
“I knew where you lived.””
The words felt impossible.
“You knew?””
He nodded.
“Every birthday. Every school change. Every time you were moved.””
My voice became quiet.
“Then why didn't you come?””
My father looked away.
“Because every time I wanted to, someone reminded me what would happen if I did.””
“Who?””
He didn't answer.
I already knew.
“Mauricio.””
My father looked at me.
“Yes.””
The silence between us was heavier than anything.
Then he reached into his pocket.
He pulled out a photograph.
He handed it to me.
It was old.
A picture of my mother and Beatriz.
Together.
Smiling.
Like friends.
On the back, my mother had written something.
*The truth is bigger than money. If something happens to us, trust no one.*
My fingers tightened around the photo.
“Us?””
I looked at my father.
“She meant both of them?””
Before he could answer, a loud crash came from outside.
We both turned.
The front window shattered.
My father grabbed me and pulled me down.
Glass fell across the floor.
Someone outside shouted:
“Raúl! We know you're in there!””
My father looked terrified.
Not for himself.
For me.
He grabbed the documents.
“Diego, listen to me.””
“What?””
“There is something you don't know.””
Another crash hit the house.
The front door began shaking.
My father stared at me.
May you like
And whispered:
“Your mother wasn't the only person Mauricio tried to kill that night.””
