Chapter 4 - The Recovery of Clara
The drive to Toluca was a blur of grey asphalt, mountain fog, and the white-hot rage that had taken complete control of my body.
Mikhail drove the armored SUV, his face set in a grim, silent mask as he navigated the narrow, potholed streets of the industrial suburbs. In the back seat, Luna and Sol were asleep, their heads resting on a pair of soft cashmere blankets I had taken from Mariana’s bed. They looked peaceful now, their breathing synchronous, their tiny hands no longer clutching stale bread but holding onto two brand-new plush bears Mikhail had bought at a gas station.
"We have the address, Boss," Mikhail said, looking at the GPS. "It’s a low-income housing tenement near the railway tracks. According to our sources, Clara Vance has been living there under an assumed name—Clara Ortiz—for the last three years."
"Is she safe?" I asked, my fingers digging into the leather of the passenger seat.
"Our local contacts say she’s been working three jobs just to pay the rent," Mikhail replied. "But she hasn't been seen at the school where she teaches for the last forty-eight hours. The neighbors say two men in a black SUV were asking questions about her on Thursday."
My heart seized. Thursday. The day before the girls appeared on my porch.
"Fast, Mikhail," I said. "Get us there now."
The tenement was a decaying, five-story concrete block covered in faded graffiti and rust. The air smelled of diesel exhaust, sewage, and cheap cooking oil. When we pulled up to the curb, a group of local youths standing near a rusted-out car scattered, taking one look at the armored SUV and the large, silent man in the driver's seat and deciding they wanted no part of us.
I didn't wait for Mikhail to open my door. I threw it open, grabbing the heavy leather binder of Mariana's journal from the dashboard, and ran up the cracked concrete steps of the building.
"Apartment 304," Mikhail said, his heavy boots thudding behind me as he carried Luna and Sol in his arms, his jacket pulled tight to conceal his sidearm.
I reached the third floor, my breath coming in short, ragged gasps. The door to apartment 304 was slightly ajar, the cheap plywood around the lock splintered as if it had been forced.
"Clara!" I shouted, throwing the door open.
The apartment was tiny—hardly larger than the master bathroom of my house in Mexico City. The furniture was cheap, plastic and pine, but the walls were covered in children's drawings—sunsets, moons, and two little girls with red and yellow dresses.
On the floor of the kitchen lay Clara.
She was thirty-two, a year younger than Mariana, with the same sharp, beautiful cheekbones, but her face was covered in bruises. A thin line of dried blood ran from her temple, and her hands were tied behind her back with thick, yellow nylon rope.
"Clara!" I dropped to my knees beside her, my hands shaking as I reached into my pocket for my pocketknife and sliced through the ropes.
Her eyes opened slowly, filled with a sudden, blind terror before they focused on my face.
"Alejandro?" she whispered, her voice cracked and dry. "Is... is it you?"
"It’s me, Clara," I said, my voice breaking as I pulled her into a hug. "I’m here. I have the girls. They are safe. They are with me."
Clara didn't cry. She let out a long, shuddering breath, her head falling against my shoulder. "They came for them, Alejandro. Mauricio’s men. They found us on Thursday. I managed to hide the girls in the water tank on the roof, but they... they beat me until I fainted. They wanted the papers. The birth certificates. They wanted to destroy any proof that the girls existed."
"I have the proof, Clara," I said, holding up Mariana's journal. "And I have the DNA results. It's over. They can't touch you anymore."
Mikhail stepped into the room, holding Luna and Sol. The moment Sol saw her aunt, she let out a loud, joyful shriek, wriggling out of Mikhail’s arms and throwing herself onto Clara’s lap.
"Auntie Clara!" Sol cried, her tiny face burying itself in Clara’s neck. "The kind man had bananas! And warm milk!"
Clara held the girls tight, her tears finally flowing, washing away the blood and the dirt on her cheeks. She looked up at me through her tangled hair, her eyes fierce and resolute.
"They killed Mariana, Alejandro," she whispered.
May you like
My breath caught in my throat. "What?"
"The oncology clinic... it was owned by a holding company registered in Delaware," Clara said, her voice trembling but clear. "Mauricio was the sole administrator. They didn't use the experimental drugs you paid for. They used placebos. They wanted her gone before the twin trust was activated. They wanted the entire Rivas estate to revert to Mauricio's line."
