Chapter 5 - THE WOMAN AT THE SCHOOL GATE
“What woman?”
Daniela looked at me.
“The one with Mommy's necklace.”
My blood ran cold.
Patricia closed her eyes.
Rosa stood behind me.
“Daniela,” I said gently, “when did you see her?”
“Two weeks ago.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Patricia said you would be angry.”
I looked at Patricia.
She didn't deny it.
“What did the woman say?”
Daniela thought.
“She asked if I was Martina's sister.”
“And?”
“I said yes.”
“What happened next?”
“She gave me this.”
Daniela opened her hand.
A small silver pendant lay in her palm.
Rosa gasped.
“That belonged to your wife.”
I took it carefully.
There was a tiny engraving on the back.
A single letter.
The same initial as the woman in the old photograph.
Patricia sat down.
“I didn't want this to happen.”
I turned toward her.
“You knew.”
“Yes.”
“You knew she had found the girls.”
“Yes.”
“You knew my wife had another daughter.”
“Yes.”
“And you told me Rosa was stealing?”
Patricia began crying.
“I was trying to keep you from finding her.”
“Why?”
“Because I was afraid.”
“Of her?”
“No.”
Patricia looked at the pendant.
“Of what your wife's family would do.”
That answer caught me off guard.
“Her family?”
“They spent years trying to erase her.”
Patricia wiped her face.
“My mother worked for them. She saw what they did.”
Rosa spoke quietly.
“And yet you continued it.”
Patricia looked at her.
“You don't know what happened.”
“I know enough.”
Patricia stood.
“No. You know what you saw.”
She turned to me.
“Your wife's daughter came back because she believed you had been kept from the truth.”
“Who is she?”
Patricia hesitated.
“Her name is Elena.”
The name struck something inside me.
I had heard it before.
A name my wife had once whispered in her sleep.
I had never understood why.
“Where is Elena now?”
“I don't know.”
Rosa stared at Patricia.
“You know exactly where she was.”
Patricia shook her head.
“Not anymore.”
I stepped closer.
“Then tell me everything you know.”
Patricia took a breath.
“Elena contacted your wife eight months before the accident.”
My heart tightened.
“Why?”
“She wanted to meet you.”
“Did my wife agree?”
“Yes.”
“Did they meet?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“At a café outside the city.”
I closed my eyes.
My wife had told me she was visiting an old friend that afternoon.
I had believed her.
“What happened?”
“She came home terrified.”
“Why?”
“Elena had proof that her adoption wasn't legal.”
Rosa interrupted.
“She had more than that.”
Patricia looked at her.
“She had records showing someone had been paid to keep her away from her mother.”
I stared.
“Who paid them?”
Patricia said nothing.
“Who?”
“My father.”
The room went silent.
“My father paid the adoption agency.”
“Why?”
“Because he wanted your wife to marry you without anyone knowing about Elena.”
I felt as though the floor had shifted.
“Why would that matter?”
Patricia's voice became softer.
“Because your wife's family knew you had money.”
I understood the implication.
They had hidden Elena to protect a family arrangement.
But there was another question.
“What does that have to do with Patricia?”
Rosa answered.
“Patricia was engaged to someone else before she met you.”
Patricia looked at her.
“Don't.”
I turned.
“Who?”
Patricia's face tightened.
“My brother.”
I stared.
“What?”
“He was supposed to marry your wife's cousin.”
“That makes no sense.”
“It will.”
She took a photograph from her purse.
It showed three families standing together at a formal event.
One man stood beside Patricia.
I recognized him.
He had been my wife's cousin's husband.
He had died years ago.
But Patricia's expression told me there was more.
“He knew about Elena,” Patricia said.
“He helped hide her.”
“And you?”
“I found out later.”
“You helped him?”
“No.”
She shook her head.
“I tried to stop it.”
Rosa stepped forward.
“You also stole the documents.”
Patricia looked away.
“Yes.”
“Which documents?”
“The ones Elena brought.”
My stomach tightened.
“Where are they?”
Patricia didn't answer.
Then a sound came from the hallway.
A soft scrape.
Marcus opened the door.
Nobody was there.
On the floor sat a woman's coat.
It was old.
Brown wool.
The same coat my wife had worn on the night she died.
I picked it up.
Something heavy was sewn into the lining.
I cut the thread with a letter opener.
A small envelope fell out.
Inside was a photograph.
My wife.
Elena.
And me.
But the photograph had been taken months before my wife supposedly met Elena.
On the back, my wife's handwriting said:
He already knows.
I looked at Patricia.
“Who is 'he'?”
Patricia's face drained of color.
May you like
Then she whispered:
“The person who made your wife's accident happen.”
