Chapter 2: The Woman in the Middle
Chapter 2: The Woman in the Middle
For several seconds, nobody moved.
The thin strip of light beneath the bedroom door remained frozen in place.
Lucía's fingers tightened around mine.
Not hard.
Just enough.
A warning.
A plea.
A command.
Don't move.
Don't speak.
Don't let him know you're awake.
My heart pounded so violently I was certain whoever stood outside the room could hear it.
Then the light disappeared.
The darkness returned.
The silence stretched.
One minute.
Two.
Three.
Finally, Lucía slowly released my hand.
Neither of us slept for the rest of the night.
At sunrise, she quietly gathered her blanket and pillow and left the room without a word.
I stared after her.
Questions burned inside my head.
The moment Esteban left for work, I found her in the kitchen.
She was washing dishes.
Humming softly.
Looking completely normal.
As if nothing had happened.
"We need to talk."
The plate slipped from her hands.
It shattered in the sink.
For the first time since she arrived, I saw genuine fear in her eyes.
"You were awake."
It wasn't a question.
I nodded.
"What happened last night?"
She looked toward the hallway.
Then toward the windows.
Then toward the front door.
Checking.
Making sure we were alone.
Finally, she whispered:
"You have to promise not to tell Esteban."
A chill ran through me.
"What are you talking about?"
Instead of answering, she disappeared upstairs.
Minutes later she returned carrying a small wooden box.
Old.
Scratched.
Locked.
With trembling fingers she opened it.
Inside were dozens of photographs.
My stomach dropped.
Every picture showed Esteban.
But none of them had been taken by family.
Some were taken through windows.
Others from across streets.
Parking lots.
Restaurants.
Gas stations.
The oldest photo was nearly six years old.
Six years before I met him.
"What is this?"
Lucía looked sick.
"My father collected them."
My mouth went dry.
"Why?"
Tears filled her eyes.
"Because my father was a police detective."
I froze.
The room suddenly felt smaller.
Colder.
Dangerous.
She pulled out a newspaper clipping.
A headline stared back at me.
LOCAL WOMAN DISAPPEARS WITHOUT A TRACE
The date was seven years old.
Another clipping.
SECOND WOMAN MISSING.
Then another.
And another.
Five women.
Five disappearances.
No bodies.
No suspects.
No arrests.
Only one thing connected every case.
Each woman had been seen with the same man shortly before vanishing.
A man whose face had never been publicly identified.
Because investigators never found enough evidence.
My hands shook as I turned the final photograph over.
Written on the back were four words.
Potential Person of Interest.
Beneath it was a name.
Esteban Morales.
My husband.
"No..."
The word escaped my lips.
"No. That's impossible."
Lucía looked away.
"My father believed he was responsible."
I backed away from the table.
"You're lying."
"I wish I was."
"My husband would never—"
"He followed him for years."
The tears finally spilled down her cheeks.
"Then my father died before he could prove anything."
Silence filled the kitchen.
The clock ticked loudly.
Every second felt unbearable.
I wanted to reject everything.
To throw the photographs away.
To laugh at how ridiculous it sounded.
But then I remembered the strange click.
The light beneath the door.
Lucía sleeping between us.
Night after night.
Not protecting herself.
Protecting me.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
Her answer shattered my heart.
"Because I wasn't sure."
She swallowed hard.
"And if I was wrong, I would destroy your marriage."
The room spun around me.
"What changed?"
Lucía reached into the box one final time.
This time she removed a small silver key.
Fresh scratches marked the metal.
Recently used.
"I found this hidden inside Esteban's toolbox yesterday."
I stared at it.
"What does it open?"
Lucía's face turned white.
"A storage unit."
A long silence followed.
Then she whispered the words neither of us wanted to hear.
"I think that's where the truth is."
Outside, a car door slammed.
Both of us jumped.
Through the kitchen window, I saw Esteban's truck pulling into the driveway.
He was home early.
Much earlier than usual.
And for the first time in our marriage...
May you like
I was afraid to see my husband.
To Be Continued...
