Chapter 3: The Empty Coffin
I didn't sleep that night.
My mother and I stayed in a hotel near downtown San Antonio after Detective Shaw advised us not to return to my father's house.
The room had two queen beds, a small refrigerator, and a window overlooking a parking garage.
My mother sat on the edge of one bed, carefully removing the sling from her injured arm.
I watched her struggle.
Six years ago, she used to brush my hair every morning before school.
Now I was watching her wince while trying to remove a piece of fabric.
"Let me help.""
She looked up.
For a moment, her expression softened.
"Thank you, baby.""
I helped her settle against the pillows.
Then I sat in the chair near the window.
"Tell me about Aunt Rosa.""
My mother sighed.
"Your aunt knew about the money.""
"How?""
"She handled some of the family property records. Your father trusted her with certain financial documents.""
"And she helped you?""
"At first, I thought she did.""
"What does that mean?""
My mother reached into her bag and removed a small photograph.
It showed the three of us standing in front of our old house.
My mother wore a yellow dress. I was around twelve, holding a birthday cake. Aunt Rosa stood beside my father, smiling at the camera.
"After my accident, I managed to contact her," my mother said.
"She told me she would help me prove what Marco had done.""
"Why didn't she tell me you were alive?""
"She said your father was watching the house. She promised to arrange a safe meeting.""
"And?""
"She never came.""
I stared at the photograph.
"Maybe she was afraid.""
"Perhaps.""
My mother hesitated.
"There's something else.""
I looked at her.
"Six years ago, when your father held the memorial, I learned something from a hospital administrator.""
"What?""
"The woman buried in that coffin wasn't me.""
The room seemed to tilt.
I stood so quickly that the chair scraped against the floor.
"What?""
My mother looked directly at me.
"The police had identified a body from a vehicle fire. But the identification was never completed using my dental records.""
"Then whose body was it?""
"I don't know.""
"How can you not know?""
"Because the hospital administrator who gave me that information died three weeks later.""
I pressed my hands against my forehead.
I remembered the memorial.
The white flowers.
The priest's voice.
My father's hand resting on my shoulder.
And the coffin.
An empty coffin, I now realized.
"Did Dad know?""
My mother looked down.
"I believe he did.""
I walked toward the window.
Outside, headlights moved through the parking structure.
My father had held me while I cried at that funeral.
He had told me my mother was gone.
He had watched me place a flower on a coffin that might have contained a stranger.
I turned around.
"Why would he do that?""
My mother didn't answer.
Instead, she opened her handbag and removed a small black notebook.
"This is why I came back.""
She placed it on the bed.
I recognized the handwriting immediately.
My mother's.
The pages contained dates, bank transfers, names, and account numbers.
Some entries were highlighted in red.
At the bottom of one page was a note.
R.B. received final payment.
I pointed at it.
"R.B.?""
"Rosa Brooks was your aunt's married name before her divorce.""
I looked at her.
"Are you saying Aunt Rosa was paid to help kill you?""
"I'm saying she received money from the same account that funded the companies involved in the fraud.""
I sank onto the bed.
My phone vibrated.
A message from my father.
Come home. We need to talk. Your mother is manipulating you.
Another message arrived.
I know you're scared, sweetheart. Remember who stayed when she abandoned you.
I stared at the screen.
My mother saw it.
"What did he say?""
I handed her the phone.
She read the messages without speaking.
Then she gave it back.
"Don't answer.""
I looked at her.
"Did he really abandon you?""
"No.""
"Did you abandon me?""
She looked as if she wanted to say something.
Then she simply whispered, "I never wanted to leave you.""
I hated that I believed her.
But I also hated that I didn't know how to trust her.
The next morning, Detective Shaw called.
She wanted us to meet at a police station.
When we arrived, she was waiting in a conference room with two folders.
"I ran the name you gave me," she said.
"Rosa Alvarez?""
"Yes.""
She opened one folder.
"Your aunt has been living in a property outside New Braunfels. She hasn't used her legal name for several years.""
"Why?""
"She has an outstanding financial investigation connected to your father's business.""
My mother leaned forward.
"Did you find her?""
Detective Shaw nodded.
"We contacted her this morning.""
"And?""
"She agreed to meet us.""
I felt my pulse quicken.
"When?""
"Today.""
Detective Shaw closed the folder.
"There's one complication.""
"What?""
"Before our officers could reach her property, someone called and warned her we were coming.""
My mother went still.
"Who called?""
The detective looked at me.
"Your father.""
I stared at her.
"How do you know?""
"Because the call was recorded.""
She turned her laptop toward us.
A short audio clip played.
My father's voice filled the room.
"Tell Rosa to get out. Lena has started asking questions.""
A second voice answered.
"Then we have a problem.""
I recognized it.
Daniel.
My uncle.
My mother gripped the edge of the table.
Detective Shaw paused the recording.
"There's more.""
She opened another file.
A photograph appeared on the screen.
It showed a woman leaving a convenience store.
Gray hair.
Dark sunglasses.
A familiar face.
Aunt Rosa.
But it wasn't the photograph that made my blood turn cold.
It was the man standing behind her.
My father.
And he was handing her an envelope.
Detective Shaw enlarged the image.
"That photograph was taken yesterday afternoon.""
I stared at the date.
Yesterday.
Before my graduation.
Before my mother walked back into my life.
My father had known where Rosa was.
May you like
He had been meeting her.
And he had been paying her.
