PART 4 — THE HOUSE WHERE MY MOTHER NEVER DIED
My mother’s voice continued playing from the phone.
“This time, make sure Elena’s coffin stays closed.”
Then came the sound of a glass being placed on a table.
Sergio spoke again.
“And Isabel?”
My mother answered without hesitation.
“She has already died once. People will believe it again.”
The recording ended.
No one in Lucía’s apartment moved.
Officer Marta stared at the black screen while the technician immediately replayed the final seconds.
I could hear my own breathing.
“That isn’t possible,” I whispered. “My mother died seven years ago.”
Marta turned toward me.
“Tell me exactly what happened when she died.”
“She had a stroke.”
“Where?”
“At a private clinic outside Madrid. She had been feeling dizzy for several weeks, but she refused to see a doctor. One afternoon, a neighbor found her unconscious.”
“Did you visit her at the clinic?”
“I arrived after she died.”
“Did you see her body?”
The question felt like a knife sliding between my ribs.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“The doctor said the stroke caused internal bleeding and that her condition had deteriorated rapidly. The funeral director advised us to remember her as she had been.”
“Was the coffin open?”
“No.”
Lucía slowly sat beside me.
“Another closed coffin,” she said.
I looked at her.
First Isabel.
Then my mother.
Two women declared dead.
Two sealed coffins.
Two funerals where grief had stopped anyone from asking the right questions.
“I signed the papers,” I told Marta. “I signed the death certificate release. I chose the flowers.”
“Who chose the funeral home?”
“My uncle Ramón.”
“And the clinic?”
“My mother had already made arrangements.”
Marta’s eyes narrowed.
“Before she became ill?”
“She said she didn’t want me handling difficult decisions if something happened to her.”
The technician raised a hand.
“I found something.”
He connected my phone to his laptop and examined the audio file.
“The file was sent today, but the original recording was created eleven days ago.”
My stomach dropped.
“That has to be wrong.”
“The metadata could be altered,” he said. “But there are other indicators. The device clock, background frequencies, compression history—they all suggest this is recent.”
“Could someone have copied her voice?”
“It’s possible to imitate or digitally reproduce a voice, but this recording contains natural breathing, movement, and overlapping speech. I would need a forensic specialist to confirm it.”
I shook my head.
“My mother is dead.”
Marta crouched in front of me.
“Elena, someone used your identity in front of a notary. Someone obtained life insurance in your name. Someone created documents declaring you dead. Right now, we cannot dismiss anything because it sounds impossible.”
Her phone rang.
She answered immediately.
“Yes?”
She listened for several seconds.
Her expression changed.
“Send units to both locations. Do not enter the Toledo property without backup.”
She ended the call.
“What happened?” I asked.
“They traced your uncle’s call.”
“To his house?”
“No.”
She looked directly at me.
“To your grandmother’s abandoned house.”
The house Isabel had mentioned in the video.
The house where the metal box was supposedly hidden beneath the floorboard.
“Is he alive?”
“We don’t know.”
“We heard a gunshot.”
“I know.”
“I need to go there.”
“No.”
“He may be hurt.”
“And the person who hurt him may still be waiting.”
“She said the original papers were there.”
“That makes the property a possible trap.”
“It’s my family’s house. I know the rooms, the land, the old entrances.”
Marta stood.
“Which is exactly why they may expect you to come.”
I grabbed her arm.
“My entire life is inside that house.”
Her gaze dropped to my hand.
I released her.
“My mother may be alive,” I said. “My cousin is alive. My uncle may have been shot. Someone is trying to erase me from the world. You cannot expect me to sit in this apartment and wait for another message.”
Marta studied me for a long moment.
“You will remain inside a police vehicle unless I personally tell you it is safe to leave.”
“I agree.”
“You will wear protective equipment.”
“Fine.”
“You will obey every instruction.”
“Yes.”
“If I tell you to run, you run.”
I nodded.
Lucía stood.
“Then I’m coming too.”
“No,” Marta and I said together.
Lucía folded her arms.
“She is staying in my home because someone attacked her. A man was shot against my front door. Whoever planned this already knows who I am.”
“That is why officers will take you to a protected location,” Marta said.
“I’m not leaving Elena.”
I took Lucía’s hands.
“You already saved me once today. Please let the police protect you now.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“I have a terrible feeling about that house.”
“So do I.”
“Then don’t go.”
I looked at the photograph of Isabel on my phone.
“If I don’t go, I will spend the rest of my life wondering which dead person is going to call me next.”
The drive to Toledo took less than an hour, but it felt endless.
I sat in the back of an unmarked police vehicle wearing a protective vest beneath a borrowed jacket. Officer Marta sat beside me. Two armed officers occupied the front seats, while several police vehicles followed at a distance.
The countryside passed outside the window.
Dry fields.
Stone walls.
Rows of olive trees shimmering beneath the midday sun.
I had traveled that road dozens of times as a child.
My mother would drive while Isabel and I argued in the back seat. Aunt Teresa carried sandwiches wrapped in foil. Uncle Ramón complained about traffic. Sofía sat near the window and rarely spoke.
Sofía.
My aunt.
My sister.
I tried to remember whether she had ever treated me differently.
She used to brush my hair when my mother was busy.
She bought me a silver bracelet for my fifteenth birthday.
Once, when I called her Aunt Sofía in front of my grandmother, she began crying and left the room.
At the time, my mother said Sofía was emotional.
Now I wondered whether she had been waiting her entire life for me to call her something else.
“Did you find anything about her?” I asked.
Marta knew who I meant.
“Sofía Martín officially moved abroad sixteen years ago.”
“To Argentina?”
“That’s what the family told you. There is no immigration record showing she entered Argentina.”
“Was she reported missing?”
“No.”
“Did she have a bank account?”
“It was emptied two days before Isabel’s crash.”
“By Sofía?”
“The withdrawal was made in person, but the bank no longer has security footage.”
“How much?”
“Almost sixty thousand euros.”
I stared through the window.
“Sofía didn’t have that kind of money.”
“The account received a large transfer one week earlier.”
“From whom?”
“A company associated with the Toledo property.”
“What company?”
“Altamar Gestión.”
The same company listed as the buyer of my apartment.
The same company involved in the fraudulent reservation agreement.
“That company existed sixteen years ago?”
“Under a different name.”
“Who owned it?”
“We are still tracing the records.”
“You already know something.”
Marta didn’t answer.
I turned toward her.
“Who owned it?”
“Sergio’s father was one of the directors.”
For several seconds, I forgot how to breathe.
“Sergio told me his father repaired cars.”
“He did. He also invested in land through several companies.”
“Did Sergio know my family before he met me?”
“We haven’t established that.”
I laughed bitterly.
“Of course he did.”
“Elena—”
“He didn’t meet me by accident.”
I remembered the first time I saw Sergio.
My car had broken down outside a shopping center. He had stopped to help before the tow truck arrived. He was kind, patient, and funny.
Two days later, he appeared at the café where I often ate lunch.
He claimed it was a coincidence.
Three months later, we were living together.
A year after that, we were married.
“What if my mother chose him?” I whispered.
Marta said nothing.
Her silence was an answer.
My grandmother’s house stood at the end of a narrow dirt road, surrounded by dead grass and neglected almond trees.
The roof had partially collapsed above the kitchen. Several shutters hung crookedly from the windows. Weeds covered the stone path where Isabel and I had once played.
Police vehicles were already parked near the gate.
An officer approached Marta as soon as we stopped.
“No one is inside the main house,” he reported. “The back door was forced recently. There’s blood in the hallway, but no body.”
“My uncle?”
“We found his phone.”
“Anything else?”
“A spent cartridge near the staircase.”
Marta opened my door.
“Stay close to me.”
The air smelled of dust, dry earth, and something metallic.
Blood.
I followed the officers through the broken back door.
The kitchen looked smaller than I remembered. The long wooden table was covered in dirt, but one chair had recently been moved.
A glass of water stood beside it.
The water was still clear.
Someone had been there recently.
A dark trail crossed the hallway floor.
I stopped.
Blood droplets led from the staircase toward the old pantry.
“Ramón,” I whispered.
Marta placed a hand against my shoulder.
“Let them clear it first.”
Two officers opened the pantry door.
Empty shelves.
Broken jars.
A sack of flour torn open across the floor.
One officer pushed against the back wall.
It moved.
A narrow hidden door opened behind the shelves.
I had lived in that house every summer until I was seventeen.
I had never known the passage existed.
The officers entered with their weapons raised.
Moments later, someone called out.
“We found him!”
I tried to run forward, but Marta caught me.
“Wait.”
Paramedics rushed past us.
Then they carried Uncle Ramón through the hidden door on a stretcher.
His face was gray. Blood covered the side of his shirt, but his eyes were open.
“Uncle!”
His gaze found me.
Fear transformed his face.
“No,” he gasped. “You shouldn’t be here.”
I walked beside the stretcher.
“Who shot you?”
He grabbed my wrist with surprising strength.
“She knows you came.”
“Who?”
His eyes moved toward the staircase.
“Your mother.”
The paramedics tried to pull him away, but he held me tighter.
“She has been waiting for you to find the house.”
“Where is she?”
“Don’t open the box.”
“Why?”
Ramón’s eyes filled with tears.
“Because what is inside will make you trust the wrong person.”
His grip weakened.
“What wrong person?”
He looked past me.
Directly at Officer Marta.
Then the paramedics carried him outside.
I turned toward her.
“Why did he look at you?”
“He’s injured and frightened.”
“He recognized you.”
“I have never met your uncle.”
“He looked directly at you.”
“Elena, we need to focus on securing the property.”
It was a reasonable answer.
But she would not meet my eyes.
The old bedroom was upstairs at the end of the hallway.
The blue wardrobe still stood against the wall.
Its paint had faded and peeled, but the tiny flowers my grandmother painted across the doors remained visible.
I remembered hiding inside it with Isabel during thunderstorms.
I remembered Sofía finding us and promising not to tell.
An officer moved the wardrobe away from the wall.
Beneath it was a loose floorboard.
Marta knelt, pulled on gloves, and lifted the wood.
A rectangular metal box rested in the dark space below.
“Is that what Isabel described?” she asked.
“Yes.”
A small lock secured the lid.
The officer used a tool to break it.
Inside were dozens of documents wrapped in plastic.
Photographs.
Passports.
Letters.
A small voice recorder.
And a black USB drive.
Marta began removing the contents one item at a time.
The first document was the original deed to the Toledo property.
My grandmother’s name appeared at the top.
Under the inheritance clause were four beneficiaries:
My mother, Carmen Martín.
Her sister Teresa.
Sofía Martín.
And me.
Not Isabel.
Me.
“But I was a child when this was prepared,” I said.
“The deed was amended fourteen years ago,” Marta replied.
“Two years after Isabel’s funeral.”
Someone had added my name after Isabel disappeared.
A second document transferred Teresa’s share to Sofía.
A third transferred my mother’s share to me.
Together, Sofía and I owned the entire property.
That explained why the forged documents needed both of us.
If Sofía was dead, her share might pass through a hidden line of inheritance.
If I was declared dead, Sergio could claim mine as my husband.
But where did Isabel fit?
I opened a faded envelope marked with my name.
Inside was a letter written in my mother’s handwriting.
Elena,
One day you may discover that I built your life on lies. Before you hate me, remember that every lie began as an attempt to keep you alive.
My hands trembled.
I continued reading.
Sofía discovered that the Toledo land contained more than an inheritance. Sergio’s father had been using our property to hide money and falsify business records. When she threatened to report him, he offered her sixty thousand euros to disappear. She accepted the money only because she planned to use it as evidence.
She never reached the police.
I looked at Marta.
“Sergio’s father killed her.”
“We don’t know that yet.”
I kept reading.
Isabel witnessed what happened. She escaped from the car before it burned, but she suffered a head injury. I hid her in a private clinic because the men searching for her believed she had died.
My eyes filled with tears.
My mother had hidden Isabel.
For sixteen years.
Teresa agreed to the funeral because we believed it was the only way to protect her daughter. Ramón was never told the entire truth. He would have gone to the police, and the people involved had contacts inside the authorities.
I glanced at Marta again.
She was watching me closely.
The body buried under Isabel’s name was Sofía’s.
The sentence blurred.
The woman in the grave was someone I had loved.
My sister.
I had stood beside her coffin without knowing who was inside.
Sofía was your sister, Elena. Your grandmother raised her as my youngest sibling because I gave birth to her when I was sixteen. I wanted to tell you. I tried many times. But admitting the truth would have exposed why Sofía was included in the inheritance and why those men wanted her silence.
There were several drops of dried ink near the bottom of the page.
Or tears.
I thought the danger ended when Sergio’s father died. I was wrong. Sergio found his father’s records. He found Isabel. Then he found you.
I stopped reading.
The room became silent.
“What does she mean, he found me?” I asked.
No one answered.
I turned the page.
Sergio did not meet you by chance.
A sound escaped my throat.
Half sob.
Half laugh.
The broken car.
The café.
The flowers.
The proposal.
Every moment I had believed was fate had been planned.
He was supposed to gain your trust, marry you, and convince you to sell the apartment before you learned about the Toledo property. I offered him money because he claimed he wanted to repair the damage his father caused.
My knees weakened.
My own mother had chosen the man who became my husband.
She had placed him inside my life.
I did not know he would become violent. When I realized what he had become, I tried to remove him. By then, he controlled Isabel, Rocío, and the documents needed to steal your identity.
The final paragraph was written in darker ink.
If Sergio ever harms you, do not trust the first person who arrives to rescue you. He has help inside the police.
I slowly raised my head.
Marta was standing three feet away.
Her hand rested near her weapon.
“Officer Marta,” I said, “what is your last name?”
She didn’t answer immediately.
“Marta Salcedo.”
I searched through the papers with shaking hands.
The forged power of attorney had been signed before two witnesses.
I had read their names but barely noticed them.
Carlos Vega.
And Marta Salcedo.
I stepped backward.
“You witnessed the notary document.”
The other officers looked at her.
Marta remained still.
“Elena, listen to me.”
“Your name is on the document.”
“I know.”
“You said you had never seen Isabel.”
“I said I had never met your uncle.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
She slowly removed her hand from her weapon and held both palms where everyone could see them.
“I was working undercover.”
“Undercover as what?”
“The notary investigation began before your assault. We suspected Altamar Gestión was using stolen identities to obtain property.”
“You watched someone sign my name.”
“We needed the transaction to continue long enough to identify everyone involved.”
“You let them declare me dead?”
“No. We stopped that filing.”
“You knew Isabel was alive.”
“I knew a woman was impersonating you. I did not know she was your cousin.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I didn’t know who inside the department had been compromised.”
“And now I’m supposed to believe you’re the honest one?”
Marta’s face tightened.
“That is exactly what your mother wanted—to make you doubt anyone who came close to the truth.”
“My mother’s letter says the police are involved.”
“One officer was involved. He disappeared six months ago.”
“Who?”
Before she could answer, one of the officers examining the box lifted a photograph.
“You need to see this.”
He placed it on the floor between us.
The photograph had been taken at my mother’s funeral seven years earlier.
I stood near the graveside wearing a black coat.
Uncle Ramón was beside me.
Sergio stood several steps behind us, pretending to be the grieving husband.
At the edge of the photograph was a younger Officer Marta.
She was not wearing a uniform.
She was speaking to my mother.
My supposedly dead mother.
The date printed on the photograph was the day after the funeral.
I looked at Marta.
“You knew she was alive.”
Marta closed her eyes.
“Yes.”
The admission landed harder than a denial.
“Where is she?”
“I don’t know.”
“You spoke to her after we buried her.”
“She contacted me because she wanted protection.”
“From Sergio?”
“From everyone.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because she made me believe telling you would get you killed.”
I laughed through my tears.
“Everyone keeps saying they lied to protect me.”
“I was wrong.”
“You let me mourn her for seven years.”
“I know.”
“You let me believe I had no family.”
“I know.”
“You stood in my apartment and pretended to discover everything with me.”
“Not everything was an act.”
“Which part was real?”
“The part where I am trying to keep you alive.”
A mechanical sound interrupted us.
The blue wardrobe moved.
Not because anyone touched it.
A hidden panel in the wall opened behind it.
Cold air flowed into the bedroom.
The officers raised their weapons.
A narrow staircase descended beneath the house.
Lights flickered on one by one.
Someone had activated them remotely.
At the bottom was a modern room filled with computer monitors.
Every screen displayed a different camera feed.
Lucía’s apartment.
My workplace.
The entrance to Sergio’s dealership.
Uncle Ramón’s home.
My apartment in Móstoles.
And the bedroom where we were standing.
Someone had been watching us the entire time.
A speaker crackled above the doorway.
Then my mother spoke.
Live.
“Elena.”
My legs nearly collapsed.
“Mother?”
Her voice softened.
“My little girl.”
“Where are you?”
“Close enough to see how much you’ve changed.”
One of the monitors switched images.
My mother appeared on the screen.
Her hair was gray now, and her face was thinner, but she was alive.
She wore a dark blouse and sat in a room I didn’t recognize.
For seven years, I had dreamed of hearing her voice again.
Now every word terrified me.
“Why did you do this?” I asked.
“To save what remained of our family.”
“You gave Sergio access to me.”
“I believed I could control him.”
“He burned my face.”
Pain crossed her expression.
“That was never part of the plan.”
“You let me think you were dead.”
“I needed Sergio to believe it too.”
“He knows you’re alive. We heard you speaking together.”
My mother looked away from the camera.
“That recording was made after he found me.”
“Eleven days ago.”
“Yes.”
“Why were you discussing my coffin?”
“Because I was trying to make him reveal his plan.”
“You sounded like you were helping him.”
“I said what he needed to hear.”
“Where is Isabel?”
Her expression changed.
“Isabel is no longer the frightened girl I protected.”
“Did she shoot Carlos?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did she shoot Uncle Ramón?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where are you?”
“I cannot tell you while Marta is there.”
I glanced at the officer.
Marta shook her head.
“She is manipulating you.”
My mother’s eyes hardened.
“She has always been good at sounding reasonable.”
“You said she protected you.”
“She protected the investigation. Not me.”
Marta stepped toward the monitor.
“Carmen, tell Elena what happened the night Sofía died.”
My mother became silent.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Elena, leave the house.”
“No.”
“Take the box and leave.”
“Tell me what happened to my sister.”
“You are in danger.”
“I have been in danger my entire marriage!”
A red light began blinking on the wall.
The technician checked a nearby control panel.
“Something has been activated.”
“What?” Marta demanded.
He examined the screen.
“A countdown.”
Numbers appeared across every monitor.
04:59
04:58
04:57
“Explosive device!” an officer shouted.
Police began ordering everyone out of the house.
Marta grabbed my arm.
“We need to move.”
I pulled away.
“Mother, stop it!”
“I didn’t activate anything.”
“Then who did?”
A second face appeared on the monitor beside hers.
Sergio.
He was sitting in what looked like an interrogation room.
Still wearing the clothes from the previous night.
Still supposedly in police custody.
He smiled into the camera.
“Elena,” he said, “you should have given Rocío the card.”
Marta stared at the screen.
“That isn’t a live feed. Sergio is still detained.”
Sergio continued as though he could hear her.
“Your mother thought she was using me. Isabel thought she was using me. The police thought they were following me.”
His smile widened.
“But none of them understood that I never wanted the apartment.”
“What did you want?” I shouted.
“The box.”
I looked down.
The metal box was open at my feet.
Documents were scattered across the floor.
The original deed.
My mother’s letter.
The passports.
The photographs.
The USB drive.
But something was missing.
A rectangular space beneath the plastic lining was empty.
Sergio leaned closer to the camera.
“Ask your mother what used to be beneath the papers.”
I ripped the lining from the box.
A handwritten label had been attached underneath.
DNA RESULTS — ELENA AND SOFÍA
My mother closed her eyes.
“What DNA results?” I asked.
She didn’t answer.
“Mother!”
The countdown reached three minutes.
Marta pulled me toward the door.
“We have to leave now.”
I kept staring at the screen.
“What were the results?”
My mother began to cry.
“Sofía was not only your sister.”
My chest tightened.
“What does that mean?”
“She was the woman who gave birth to you.”
The room seemed to collapse around me.
“That’s impossible.”
“I was sixteen when I had Sofía,” my mother said. “And Sofía was sixteen when she had you.”
I could no longer understand the words.
The woman I had called my sister was my biological mother.
The woman on the screen was my grandmother.
“Why did you raise me as your daughter?”
“To stop your father from finding you.”
“Who was my father?”
The countdown reached two minutes.
My mother’s face filled the monitor.
“Elena, that is why Sergio wants the DNA results.”
“Who was he?”
She looked directly at Sergio’s image.
Then she whispered the name.
“Rafael Lozano.”
Sergio’s father.
The room went silent.
Rafael Lozano had killed—or helped kill—Sofía.
He had stolen from my family.
And according to my mother, he was also my biological father.
That meant Sergio was not merely the man who had targeted my inheritance.
He was my father’s son.
My husband was my half-brother.
The countdown reached sixty seconds.
Marta dragged me toward the staircase.
Behind us, Sergio’s recorded laughter filled the underground room.
Then my mother screamed through the speaker:
“Elena, don’t leave with Marta!”
I stopped.
“Why?”
“Because Sergio did not escape police custody alone.”
Marta tightened her grip.
My mother pointed toward her through the screen.
“She was the officer who opened his cell.”………………….
TO BE CONTINUED IN LAST PART…
