Chapter 8 - THE ROOM WITH THE BLUE CURTAINS
“Where are you?”
Elena didn't answer.
“Please,” she whispered. “I don't have much time.”
“Tell me where you are.”
“Room 814.”
Marcus shook his head.
She continued.
“Don't come through the front entrance.”
“Why?”
“Because he knows you're coming.”
The call ended.
I looked at Marcus.
“Get a team there.”
He nodded.
Patricia stepped closer.
“I know the building.”
“So do I.”
She shook her head.
“No. You don't know the old service corridors.”
Rosa looked at her.
“You've been there before.”
“Yes.”
Patricia looked at me.
“My uncle used that hotel for years.”
We left the girls with Rosa and two trusted security officers.
I hated leaving them.
But I knew this had become bigger than Patricia's lies.
It was about the woman my wife had spent years trying to protect.
When we reached the hotel, Marcus led us through a service entrance.
Patricia followed.
The hallway smelled of old carpet and cleaning chemicals.
Room 814 was empty.
The curtains were blue.
A lamp was still on.
A chair had been knocked over.
There was a photograph on the bed.
Elena.
Alive.
She had written a message on the back.
He took the original records. I kept copies.
Marcus searched the room.
Then he found a small suitcase.
Inside were photographs, letters, and a child's drawing.
The drawing showed a woman holding a baby.
Underneath was written:
Mommy promised she would come back.
I sat on the edge of the bed.
My wife had known.
She had spent years carrying this pain alone.
Then Patricia found something beneath the mattress.
A key.
Not the brass key Rosa had.
A different one.
Attached to it was a tag.
Storage 19.
Marcus looked at me.
“We check it.”
The storage room was two floors below.
Inside was an old wooden cabinet.
Patricia immediately recognized it.
“My uncle kept family records here.”
Marcus opened it.
Folders filled the shelves.
Birth records.
Adoption records.
Property documents.
Financial statements.
And one envelope with my name on it.
I opened it.
My wife's handwriting.
If you're reading this, I failed to tell you the truth.
My throat tightened.
She wrote about Elena.
About the adoption.
About discovering the trust.
About fearing that her family would use our daughters as leverage.
Then came the sentence that changed everything.
I didn't marry you for your money. I married you because you were the first person who made me believe my past didn't have to define my future.
I had to stop reading.
Patricia stood silently.
Rosa cried.
I continued.
But someone in my family believes our daughters belong to them.
Then another line:
And Patricia knows more than she admits.
I looked at Patricia.
She didn't deny it.
“My wife knew you were involved.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“I told her.”
“Then why did she trust you?”
“Because I tried to help her.”
“What did you do?”
Patricia looked down.
“I moved the adoption records.”
“Why?”
“To keep my uncle from destroying them.”
I looked at the papers.
“You saved them.”
“Yes.”
“And later you used them against me.”
“I was afraid.”
“That isn't an excuse.”
“No.”
She looked at me.
“It isn't.”
For a moment, there was nothing but silence.
Then Marcus found another folder.
Inside was a bank transfer.
A large payment made three days before my wife's death.
The recipient was Patricia.
I stared at her.
“You were paid.”
She closed her eyes.
“Yes.”
“For what?”
“To make you distrust Rosa.”
My stomach dropped.
“You were hired.”
“I was.”
“By your uncle?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because Rosa knew about Elena.”
“And you agreed?”
“I thought I could control the situation.”
“You nearly destroyed my family.”
“I know.”
Then something struck the door.
A loud metallic crash.
Marcus pulled his weapon.
“Stay back.”
The lights went out.
Rosa grabbed my arm.
A few seconds later, emergency lighting came on.
The cabinet was open.
The folder was gone.
So was the brass key.
Patricia stared at the empty shelf.
“He's been here.”
Marcus checked the corridor.
“No one.”
Then my phone vibrated.
A message.
A photograph of Martina and Daniela asleep at home.
Taken from inside their bedroom.
My blood turned cold.
Below the photograph was one sentence:
Bring Patricia to the old house by midnight, or the girls disappear.
I looked at Marcus.
Then at Patricia.
She was crying.
“He knows where they are.”
“No.”
I stared at the photograph.
“He wants us to believe that.”
Marcus looked closer.
“Sir.”
“What?”
“Look at the clock.”
The photograph showed the girls asleep.
The bedside clock read 11:42.
I checked my phone.
It was 10:58.
The photograph wasn't live.
It had been taken earlier.
Someone wanted us to panic.
Then Rosa suddenly whispered:
“The old house.”
I turned.
“What?”
“Your wife's childhood home.”
“What about it?”
“She hid something there.”
“Where?”
Rosa looked at Patricia.
Patricia answered.
“Behind the blue curtains.”
I stared at her.
“The same curtains in Room 814.”
May you like
Patricia nodded.
“They weren't blue by accident.”
