Chapter 2 - The Chamber Beneath the Wax
The splintered oak floorboards tore through the skin of Mateo’s palms as he ripped them upward, but he felt no pain. The iron poker clattered onto the polished floor as his bare, bleeding fingers tore into the subflooring. The smell that burst from the dark void below was not the clean scent of wood or mortar—it was the damp, suffocating odor of stale air, mold, dirt, and human sweat.
"Emiliano!" Mateo screamed, his voice cracking into a ragged sob.
Through the broken gap, two tiny, filthy hands reached upward. Mateo leaned deep into the darkness, his shoulders wedging against the splintered joists, and grabbed his son’s frail, cold arms. The boy felt weightless—like a bundle of dried twigs wrapped in dirty cotton. With a violent, desperate pull, Mateo hoisted the seven-year-old child up into the blinding light of the living room.
Emiliano collapsed onto the rug, gasping for air, shielding his sunken, wide eyes from the ceiling lights. His hair was long, matted with dust and dried lime, and his skin was a sickly, translucent white. He was wearing the same blue graphic t-shirt and grey shorts he had worn on that Sunday afternoon in Coyoacán a year ago—now torn, stained, and clinging to his emaciated frame.
"Daddy..." the boy croaked. His voice was a paper-thin whisper, dry as dust.
"I'm here! I'm here, my boy, I'm here!" Mateo sobbed, pulling Emiliano tight against his chest, weeping hysterically as he rocked the trembling child. Beside them, five-year-old Jimena crawled forward, wrapping her tiny arms around her brother’s legs, pressing her tear-streaked face against his muddy knees.
Rebeca remained on her knees by the sofa, paralyzed. Her pristine white blouse was stained with spilled coffee. She stared at the gaping hole in her pristine floor, her lips trembling, her hands twitching as if searching for something to clean the mess.
Mateo turned his head slowly. The relief in his eyes burned away instantly, replaced by a dark, murderous fury. He stood up, placing himself between his children and his sister.
"You had him under the floor," Mateo said, his voice dropping into a deadly, vibrating tone. "For a year... you kept my son in a hole under your house?"
"Mateo... please, let me explain, you don't understand—" Rebeca gasped, scrambling backward on her hands and knees as Mateo took a slow step toward her.
"Explain?!" Mateo roared, the sound shaking the glass windows of the luxurious living room. He grabbed a heavy marble coaster from the coffee table and hurled it through the floor-to-ceiling glass wall behind her. The glass shattered into thousands of glittering shards, exposing the quiet, manicured cul-de-sac outside.
"Help! Somebody call the police!" Mateo screamed out the broken window at the top of his lungs. "CALL THE POLICE! MY SON WAS KIDNAPPED!"
Rebeca scrambled toward him, panic turning her face into a grotesque, twisted mask. "No! Mateo, don't call them! You'll ruin everything! I did it for us! I did it for the family!"
Mateo kicked her away. His heavy work boot caught her in the shoulder, sending her sprawling across the tile floor. He snatched his smartphone from his pocket, his blood-stained fingers smearing the glass screen as he dialed 911.
"Emergency services," he barked into the receiver, his chest heaving. "I'm at 104 Avenida de las Campanas, Monte Real gated community. I just found my kidnapped son hidden under the floor of this house. Send an ambulance! Send every cop in Querétaro right now!"
As Mateo spoke into the phone, Rebeca realized the game was over. The sirens would be there in minutes. The private security guards at the neighborhood gate would not be able to stop the state police. She looked at Emiliano, then at Mateo, and a cold, monstrous expression settled onto her face. The frantic pleading vanished, replaced by an icy, calculating silence.
She slowly stood up, smoothing down her wrinkled skirt.
"You always were too loud, Mateo," she whispered, stepping toward the front door. "Just like your mother. You never appreciated what I tried to build."
"Touch that door and I will break you," Mateo snarled, grabbing the iron poker from the floor.
Rebeca didn't run for the front entrance. Instead, she reached into her handbag on the console table, pulled out a small set of brass keys, and bolted down the hallway toward the master bedroom.
Mateo didn't pursue her into the dark corridor. His priority was his children. He dropped back down to his knees, wrapping his jacket around Emiliano’s shivering body.
"Are you hurt, son? Did she hurt you?" Mateo whispered, his hands trembling as he checked the boy’s tiny arms and legs.
Emiliano shook his head weakly, clutching his father’s collar with a desperate, terrified grip. "She... she gave me water through the pipe, Dad," the boy whimpered, his breath smelling of stale water and old biscuits. "She told me... she told me Mommy and you were dead. She said if I made a sound, the bad men who killed you would come down and get me."
Tears poured down Mateo’s face, hot and scalding. He pulled Jimena and Emiliano close, holding them in a human shield as the distant, rising wail of police sirens began to echo through the quiet streets of the gated community.
Outside, tires screeched against pavement. Red and blue lights flashed through the broken glass window, reflecting off the pristine, coffee-stained walls. Heavy boots pounded up the front driveway, and four uniformed state police officers burst through the front door, guns drawn.
"Freeze! Hands where we can see them!" the lead officer shouted.
May you like
Mateo didn't flinch. He raised his blood-stained hands while remaining on his knees, shielding the two children beneath him.
"In the hole," Mateo said, his voice ringing with absolute clarity. "Look in the hole. And check the back of the house. My sister is trying to burn her life down."
