He twisted his cap in his hands. “At the Guadalajara property… sometimes, at night, I heard crying. From below.”
The word below landed like a weight.
That night, Elena copied a key from Viviana’s ring using a bar of soap and drove into the mountains.
The estate loomed against the dark sky like a secret refusing confession.
Inside, the air was damp and cold. She followed a faint, broken sound down to a cellar door hidden behind crates.
When it opened, the smell hit her first—mildew and something human.
Her flashlight found a small figure curled against stone.
A chain circled his ankle.
Daniel lifted his head, eyes too large for his gaunt face.
“Don’t tell her,” he rasped.
“I’m not here for her,” Elena whispered. “I’m here for you.”
She documented everything—chain, lock, bruises, pill bottles with mismatched labels.
She didn’t take him to the mansion.
She took him somewhere quiet and safe, above a bakery where the scent of bread felt like life returning.
She fed him slowly. Recorded his testimony in fragments.
“She changed Dad’s medicine,” he whispered once.
Elena went back for more proof.