Chapter 4 - THE PHONE CALL IN THE DARK
Terror gave me a sudden burst of frantic speed.
I slammed the lid of the wooden lockbox shut, shoved it back into the dark corner behind the bleach bottles beneath the sink, closed the lower cabinet door as quietly as I could, and slid the glass bottle of Toloache into the deep pocket of my dress.
I didn't have time to reach the stairs.
I flattened my back against the narrow pantry wall beside the refrigerator, tucking myself deep into the shadows just as Don Ernesto walked out of his bedroom and stepped into the hallway.
He was wearing his faded cotton bathrobe, his grey hair uncombed and messy from sleep. He stood in the hallway for three agonizing seconds, scratching his chin, looking toward the kitchen door.
My heart was pounding so loudly in my ears that I was convinced he could hear it from across the house. I squeezed my eyes shut, holding my breath until my lungs burned, pressing my body against the plaster wall.
Don Ernesto turned away, walked into the small bathroom across the hall, and closed the door behind him. The sound of running water echoed through the pipes.
I didn't waste a single microsecond.
I bolted out of the kitchen on my bare feet, flying up the wooden stairs like a ghost, taking them two at a time, ignoring the searing pain in my weak leg muscles. I sprinted into my bedroom, slammed the door shut, and collapsed against the wooden frame, gasping for air.
My baby was still lying safely on the bed, sleeping peacefully among the pillows.
I ran to the bed, grabbed my cell phone from the nightstand, and checked the screen with trembling, slick fingers.
No Signal.
Because of the thick stucco walls of the old house and its location on the edge of town, cell coverage inside the bedroom was notoriously spotty and unreliable. I usually had to hold the phone against the upper corner of the window frame to get even a single bar of service.
I rushed to the window, pressed the phone against the glass, and waited, tears of frustration blurring my vision.
Finally, a single, flickering bar appeared on the top of the screen.
I dialed Carlos’s number immediately.
The phone rang... once... twice... three times. Every ring felt like a drop of acid falling on my heart.
Come on, Carlos. Please answer. Please pick up the phone.
"Hello? Maria?"
His voice came through the speaker, distorted by heavy static and accompanied by the loud, metallic background noise of riveting machines and heavy construction equipment.
"Carlos!" I sobbed, my voice cracking into a desperate, frantic whisper as I turned my back to the door. "Carlos, listen to me very carefully! You have to come home right now! You have to come home today!"
"Maria? What's wrong? I can barely hear you, the signal is terrible," Carlos said, his tone shifting from casual to instantly concerned. "Is the baby okay? Are you sick?"
"It's your father, Carlos!" I whispered desperately, pressing the phone tight against my ear. "He's poisoning me! He's putting something in my food—a plant called Toloache! He's been drugging me every single day since I brought the baby here! I found the bottle! I found a notebook in the kitchen where he wrote down my doses!"
There was a long, terrible pause on the line. The background noise of the Monterrey job site continued to roar, but Carlos was dead silent.
When he finally spoke, his voice was measured, slow, and tinged with deep worry—but not the kind of worry I needed. It was the careful, cautious tone a person uses when speaking to someone who is losing their mind.
"Maria... sweetie," Carlos said softly, slowly. "What are you talking about? My dad? He’s... he’s sixty years old. He’s been cooking for you every day so you can rest. You sound really confused, Maria. Have you been sleeping at all?"
"No! Carlos, listen to me!" I cried out, tears pouring down my face, my voice rising in sharp panic. "I am not crazy! I am not making this up! Doña Rosa didn't die of a stroke, Carlos! He drugged her too! I saw the photographs! I saw his notes! He wants to break my mind so he can take our baby! You have to believe me!"
"Maria, please, calm down," Carlos urged, his voice sounding increasingly worried and alarmed. "You're having a panic attack. Postpartum depression is really serious, Maria. The doctor at the hospital warned us that high fatigue can cause severe anxiety and... paranoia. My dad loves you. He loves the baby. He would never hurt anyone."
"Carlos, please!" I begged, my body shaking violently. "If you love me, if you care about your son, come home! If you don't come home today, I will be dead or gone by the time you get here!"
"Okay, okay! Listen to me," Carlos said quickly, panic finally breaking through his voice. "I'm going to talk to my supervisor right now and try to get on an evening flight or a night bus. But Maria, you need to lie down. Promise me you won't do anything rash. Let my dad take care of you until I get there. Promise me."
"Carlos—"
Before I could finish the sentence, the low, calm voice of Don Ernesto spoke from directly behind me in the room.
"Who are you talking to, Maria?"
I froze, my blood turning to solid ice.
I slowly turned around.
Don Ernesto was standing inside my bedroom. He had opened the door so quietly that I hadn't heard a single sound. He held a brass key in his right hand, and his face was completely devoid of any emotion—no anger, no surprise, no fear. Just a cold, blank, terrifying emptiness.
He was holding a fresh glass of water on a small silver tray.
"I brought you some water, daughter," he said softly, stepping closer to the bed. "You sound very tired. You are talking nonsense to my son."
I shoved the cell phone into my pocket, grabbed my baby from the bed with my left arm, and backed into the farthest corner of the room near the window, holding the infant tight against my chest.
"Get away from me," I hissed, my teeth chattering with pure terror. "Don't come any closer."
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Don Ernesto stopped in the center of the room. He looked at the baby in my arms, then looked down at the glass of water, and finally raised his cold eyes to meet mine.
"You went downstairs while I was sleeping, didn't you?" he asked, his voice dropping into a flat, deadly whisper. "You opened my box."
