Chapter 2 - THE LOCKED DESKTOP AND THE WHISPER IN THE DARKThe weeping in the living room abruptly stopped, replaced by a suffocating, heavy silence. Every eye in the room snapped toward Sofía, then darted nervously to me.
My blood turned to ice water in my veins. Seventy-two hours in a secure military-grade communications blackout meant I had been blind to everything happening at home. But the training of a private security operative didn't leave me; it only focused me.
"Alejandro, don't listen to the babbling of a traumatized child," Teresa hissed, her voice dripping with venom thinly veiled as maternal concern. She stepped forward, her hands outstretched. "The poor girl has hallucinated out of grief. Ofelia, help me get the child away—the funeral must proceed before sunset, or the soul will wander."
"Stay where you are," I commanded. My voice wasn't loud, but it carried the absolute authority that had once kept frontline squads alive in hostile territory.
Teresa froze.
Diego wiped sweat from his forehead, his eyes darting toward the front door. "Alejandro, come on. Mom is right. The girl is grieving. Let's just finish the service. It’s what’s best for everyone."
"Best for who, Diego?" I turned slowly, locking eyes with my younger brother. He was sweating profusely despite the cool air conditioning of the room. "Best for Mariana? Or best for the person whose fingerprints are on her bedroom door?"
Without another word, I scooped Sofía into my arms, pressing her small, trembling body against my chest. "Hold on to me, baby. Daddy is home now. No one is going to hurt you."
"Are you going to arrest Grandma and Uncle Diego?" she whispered near my ear.
"I'm going to find out the truth," I whispered back.
Ignoring Teresa’s shrill shrieks and Aunt Ofelia’s frantic warnings about desecrating a corpse, I bypassed the living room and bolted up the stairs toward the third-floor master bedroom. The house felt different—heavy, claustrophobic, and tainted by secrets.
When I reached our bedroom door, the physical evidence hit me instantly.
The heavy oak doorframe was splintered around the latch. Fresh woodchips littered the carpet. Diego hadn't just knocked; he had kicked it in with professional force—or a burst of violent panic.
I pushed the broken door open and stepped inside. The bed was unmade. Mariana’s favorite shawl lay on the floor. But my eyes went straight to her mahogany desk in the corner.
Her laptop was gone.
"They took it," a low, rasping sound echoed from the doorway.
May you like
I whipped around. My father, Ernesto, had somehow maneuvered his electronic wheelchair up the freight elevator to the third floor. His left hand trembled violently as he pointed a shaky finger toward Teresa’s private suite down the hall.
He didn't just understand; he was hunting them too.
