“No,” he says. “Now.”
You call the house manager.
No answer.
You call staff housing.
No answer.
Finally, you call the kitchen.
An older cook named Petra picks up, breathing hard.
“Señor?”
“Where is Mariela?”
A pause.
“Señor, I don’t want trouble.”
“Petra.”
Her voice shakes.
“They sent her away this morning. Señora Rebeca said her contract was terminated. They made her leave through the service gate.”
Your blood goes cold.
“And Abril?”
“With her.”
“Where did they go?”
Petra hesitates.
Then whispers an address in Santa Catarina.
You repeat it aloud for Salvador.
He is already writing.
“Send a driver,” he says.
“No,” you answer. “I’m going.”
The car ride feels longer than it is.
You sit in the back seat beside Salvador, your cane across your knees, while your driver, Óscar, navigates through Monterrey traffic. The air changes as you leave San Pedro behind. Less perfume. More dust. Less silence. More life.
You roll the window down.
Salvador says, “Are you sure?”
“No.”
He grunts.
“Good. Only fools are sure.”
You arrive at a narrow street where dogs bark behind metal gates and children ride bicycles too close to parked cars. Óscar guides you carefully out of the car. You hear curtains moving, neighbors noticing the expensive vehicle.
Mariela opens the door before you knock twice.
She inhales sharply.
“Señor Valdés.”
Her voice is raw.
Abril appears behind her, then pushes past her mother.
“Esteban!”
The sound hits you in the chest.
Small arms wrap around your waist before anyone can stop her.
You bend slowly and place one hand on her head.
Her hair smells like shampoo and rain.
“You missed dinner,” you say.
She pulls back.
“So did you.”
You laugh.
A real laugh.
It startles you.
Mariela begins crying.
“I’m sorry, señor. I didn’t want to leave. They told me if I made noise, they would accuse me of stealing.”
Salvador mutters something under his breath that sounds legally violent.
You ask, “Did they pay what they owed you?”
“No.”
“Did they give you notice?”
“No.”
“Did they threaten you?”
She hesitates.
Abril answers for her.
“The mean lady said my mom was lucky she didn’t call the police.”
Mariela covers her mouth.
You stand very still.
For years, Rebeca had decided who was allowed near you.
Who was dangerous.
Who was useful.
Who was removable.
Now she had removed the only person who had brought you back to life.
A six-year-old girl looks up at you and asks, “Are you mad?”
“Yes,” you say.
She thinks about that.
“At me?”
“No.”
“At your sister?”
“Yes.”
Abril nods.
“She smells like cold flowers.”
Salvador coughs to hide a laugh.
