Before she could answer, a sharp cry came from inside—not a tantrum, but pain. Instinctively, Lucas stepped forward. Isabel tried to block him, panic flashing across her face, but he was already inside.
The house smelled of damp walls, cheap food, and illness.
On a thin mattress in the corner lay a young boy, shaking beneath a worn blanket. His skin burned with fever. His breathing was labored. Another infant whimpered somewhere behind a curtain.
Lucas’s chest tightened.
Then he saw the kitchen table.
A framed photograph sat there—old, carefully kept. It showed a woman smiling softly, her arm around a teenage girl.
Lucas froze.
The woman was his sister.
Ana Alvarez.
Next to the photo lay a gold pendant—an heirloom that had vanished the day Ana was buried.
His knees nearly buckled.
“Where did you get this?” he demanded.
Isabel collapsed to the floor.
“I didn’t steal it,” she cried. “She gave it to me.”
The room seemed to shrink.
Isabel told him everything.