Chapter 3 - The Grave That Was Empty
We left at dawn.
Matthew drove.
I sat beside him.
I didn't ask where we were going.
I already knew.
The cemetery stood on a hill overlooking the ocean.
Cold wind moved between the stones.
My father's grave was marked with a black granite headstone.
Daniel Vargas.
Beloved father and husband.
1962–2014.
I stared at the dates.
“Why did you bring me here?”
Matthew walked toward the grave.
“Open it.”
I looked at him.
“What?”
He nodded to two men standing nearby.
They began removing the earth.
My hands went cold.
“This is insane.”
“You wanted the truth.”
“I didn't mean this.”
Neither he nor the men stopped.
The coffin was opened.
Inside was a skeleton.
But the medical examiner later confirmed something that broke every remaining piece of certainty.
The bones belonged to another man.
Not my father.
Someone had staged his funeral.
My father's body had never been there.
I sat on the ground.
“He's alive?”
Matthew crouched beside me.
“Maybe.”
“Then where is he?”
“We find out.”
A new message appeared on Matthew's phone.
COME TO THE OLD VARGAS WAREHOUSE.
ONE PERSON.
BRING ELENA.
I expected Matthew to refuse.
He didn't.
We went.
The warehouse had been abandoned for years.
Rust covered the doors.
Dust filled the air.
But inside, there were fresh tire tracks.
Matthew's men spread out.
I followed him.
We found a small office.
On the desk sat a tape recorder.
Matthew pressed play.
My father's voice filled the room.
“Elena, if you're hearing this, I'm sorry.”
I covered my mouth.
“Your father may tell you everything is fine.”
Pause.
“He may tell you Isabel is safe.”
Another pause.
“Do not believe her.”
My eyes filled with tears.
“I know Isabel wants control of the company. But the company isn't what she's after.”
The recording hissed.
“She wants the ledger.”
Matthew looked at me.
“What ledger?”
The recording continued.
“The ledger contains names. Payments. Judges. Police. Politicians.”
“And if Isabel gets it, people die.”
My heart pounded.
Then my father's voice became softer.
“I hid the ledger in the one place nobody would search.”
The recording stopped.
I waited.
Nothing.
“That's it?”
Matthew examined the machine.
“There’s another tape.”
He found it.
My father's voice returned.
“Behind the portrait of Elena's mother.”
I froze.
“My mother.”
Matthew looked at me.
“Where is the portrait?”
“At home.”
My childhood home.
The one Isabel sold.
Matthew made a call.
Ten minutes later, his security chief returned.
“The property was demolished six years ago.”
My heart sank.
“Everything's gone.”
“No,” Matthew said.
“What?”
“The portrait survived.”
He showed me a photograph.
It was hanging in Isabel's private office.
My mother's portrait.
My chest tightened.
She had never displayed it in our house.
But she had kept it.
Why?
We returned to the Vargas building.
It was surrounded by private guards.
Matthew walked through the front door.
Everyone stepped aside.
The receptionist nearly dropped her phone.
“Mr. Carranza.”
“I'm here for the portrait.”
Isabel wasn't there.
Her assistant led us upstairs.
The portrait was enormous.
My mother stood against a garden background.
She was beautiful.
Warm.
Happy.
I remembered almost nothing about her.
She died when I was six.
At least, that's what I'd been told.
Matthew moved the frame.
A steel box sat behind it.
My hands shook.
Inside was a ledger.
Black leather.
Gold clasp.
My father's initials.
D.V.
I opened it.
The first page contained names.
Not only names.
Dates.
Amounts.
Photographs.
The network reached into the city's highest offices.
And then I saw the final page.
A payment.
Made fifteen years ago.
Recipient: Isabel Vargas.
Amount: $3,000,000.
Purpose:
REMOVAL OF ELENA'S MOTHER.
My knees almost collapsed.
My mother hadn't died naturally.
She had been murdered.
Matthew caught me.
“Look at me.”
I couldn't.
“Look at me.”
I did.
His face had changed.
The calm was gone.
“Your father hid this because he knew what she was.”
“Why didn't he tell me?”
“Because he thought he could protect you.”
“And failed.”
“Maybe.”
Matthew closed the ledger.
“I won't.”
A gunshot shattered the window.
Matthew pushed me down.
Another shot.
Security returned fire.
We crawled behind the desk.
“Stay here.”
“No.”
He looked at me.
“Please.”
I grabbed his sleeve.
“Don't leave me.”
For one second, neither of us moved.
Then he nodded.
“I won't.”
The gunfire stopped.
A man lay outside the window.
Dead.
In his pocket was a photograph.
Me.
Taken that morning.
May you like
On the back were three words.
NEXT IS DADDY.
