Chapter 2 - The Children Beneath the Train Station
After Elena left, I called María.
"Find out everything about Lucía."
She looked worried.
"Everything?"
"Everything."
"Why?"
"Because my father knew her."
María stopped.
"Are you sure?"
"No."
That was becoming my most common answer.
I wanted to know where Lucía came from.
Who her parents were.
Why she lived on the streets.
Why she knew about helping people.
And why my father's symbol was behind her.
But before María could finish the investigation, Lucía appeared in my office.
She climbed into the chair opposite mine.
"You look angry."
"I'm thinking."
"Same thing."
I almost smiled.
"What do you know about the blue bird?"
She became completely still.
"What blue bird?"
I pointed to Elena's photograph.
Lucía stared at it.
Then she looked away.
"Who told you?"
"So you know."
She pressed her lips together.
"Yes."
"Who?"
"My mamá."
"Where is she?"
Lucía lowered her eyes.
"Dead."
I softened.
"I'm sorry."
She shrugged.
"She said dead people can still help."
I looked at the photograph.
"Did she know my father?"
Lucía nodded.
"She said he was good."
I couldn't reconcile that with my memories.
My father had been a difficult man.
A businessman.
A philanthropist in public.
A ruthless negotiator in private.
But good?
I didn't know.
"What did he do for your mother?"
"He gave her a job."
"Where?"
"At a foundation."
"What foundation?"
Lucía didn't know the name.
But she knew the location.
An old warehouse near the train station.
I went there that afternoon.
María came with me.
So did two security men.
The warehouse looked abandoned.
Inside, we found old desks.
Broken shelves.
Empty boxes.
And on one wall, the blue bird.
I touched it.
A hidden panel opened.
Behind it was a stack of folders.
Each contained the name of a child.
Not twenty-three.
Hundreds.
Medical records.
School records.
Birth certificates.
Food vouchers.
Emergency contacts.
My father's handwriting appeared on several pages.
At the bottom of one folder was a sentence.
No child should be invisible.
I sat down.
María read the files.
"These children were supposed to receive housing."
"Did they?"
"No."
"Why?"
She opened another document.
Funds had been transferred.
But the money never reached the foundation.
Someone had stolen it.
The foundation had been emptied six years before my father died.
I remembered something.
My father had become suspicious during the final year of his life.
He had accused one of his closest associates.
A man named Rafael Duarte.
I hadn't understood why.
Now I did.
Rafael had controlled several charitable accounts.
He had access to millions.
He had disappeared after my father's death.
I returned to the mansion.
That night, Lucía came to see me.
"Why did you help us?"
I asked.
She frowned.
"Who?"
"My father."
She smiled.
"He said he was paying a debt."
"What debt?"
"He made a promise to someone."
"Who?"
"My mother."
I stared.
"What promise?"
Lucía climbed onto the sofa.
"He promised that if something happened, he'd take care of me."
I felt something tighten in my chest.
"Did he?"
She shook her head.
"He died."
"But you're alive."
"That's why I said you should believe."
I looked at her.
"Believe in what?"
"That promises don't die."
The next morning, I began walking therapy at a specialist clinic.
The doctors were astonished.
My right leg could bear weight for three seconds.
Then five.
Then seven.
The sensation in my left foot returned slightly.
A week later, I stood for eleven seconds.
The headlines began.
A billionaire walks again after five years.
Miracle recovery.
Unknown treatment.
I hated every headline.
Because nobody knew the truth.
It wasn't one miracle.
It was dozens of small things.
Therapy.
Pain.
Patience.
And a little girl who refused to let me quit.
Then, one evening, she didn't come.
I waited.
Five o'clock.
Six.
Seven.
Eight.
No Lucía.
I sent security to search the neighborhood.
Nothing.
At nine, I received a phone call.
"Mr. Romero?"
The voice was male.
"You know where the girl is."
My blood turned cold.
"What did you do?"
"Nothing yet."
"Who are you?"
"You've been asking questions about your father's charity."
"Where is Lucía?"
"Find the blue bird."
The call ended.
I called the police.
Then I called everyone I knew.
The next message arrived.
A photograph.
Lucía sitting in a dark room.
Her wrists were tied.
She looked terrified.
Under the photograph:
Bring the warehouse ledger.
Or she disappears forever.
I stared at the screen.
The ledger.
The one we hadn't found.
The one my father had hidden.
And suddenly I understood.
Lucía wasn't being held because she was valuable.
She was being held because someone believed she knew where the ledger was.
I called María.
"Find Rafael Duarte."
She hesitated.
"I thought he was dead."
"So did I."
"Where do we start?"
I looked at the blue bird.
"Underneath the train station."
That was where Lucía had first asked me for food.
It was where she had told me two boys were hungry.
And now I realized she had not chosen that place randomly.
She had been protecting something.
May you like
Something my father had left behind.
And someone was willing to kill a five-year-old to get it.
