.
The next morning, Valeria woke before dawn to the sound of Mateo crying without sound. It was worse than screaming. He sat in the corner of his room with his knees pulled to his chest, mouth open, tears falling, but no voice coming out.
She crossed the room slowly and sat on the floor a few feet away from him. “I’m not going to touch you unless you want me to,” she said. “You’re safe with me.”
Mateo rocked once, then stopped. His eyes flicked toward the closet.
Valeria followed his gaze.
The closet door was open by only an inch.
She stood carefully, walked over, and opened it wider. Inside were rows of expensive children’s clothes, tiny jackets, polished shoes, and boxes of toys that looked untouched. Nothing seemed unusual until she noticed scratches low on the inside of the closet door.
Not accidental scratches.
Small marks.
Lines carved into the wood from the inside.
Valeria felt the air leave her lungs.
Behind her, Mateo whimpered.
She turned back. “Were you hiding in there?”
Mateo pressed both hands over his ears.
Valeria did not ask again. She closed the closet gently and moved back to the floor. Her ribs still hurt from the bronze statue he had thrown the day before, but the pain suddenly felt unimportant compared to those scratches.
When Alejandro arrived thirty minutes later, freshly showered and dressed in a black shirt that probably cost more than Valeria’s monthly rent, he found her sitting on the floor with Mateo asleep against her knee. He looked at the boy, then at the closet, then back to Valeria.
“What happened?” he asked.
Valeria lowered her voice. “There are scratches inside the closet door.”
Alejandro’s face emptied.
“He’s four,” she said. “Those marks are low. They look like a child made them while trapped inside.”
The words seemed to hit him physically. He crossed to the closet and opened it. For a long moment, he stared at the marks without breathing.
“No,” he said quietly.
Valeria heard the denial, but not disbelief. It was guilt.
Alejandro touched the scratches with two fingers. Then he stepped back as if the wood had burned him. “Who would lock him in here?”
Valeria looked toward the hallway.
Neither of them said Elvira’s name, but both heard it.
That day, Alejandro ordered every camera recording from the last two years reviewed. His security chief, Marcus Kane, a former U.S. Marshal with gray hair and tired eyes, looked uncomfortable.
“We don’t keep everything that long,” Marcus said.
Alejandro’s gaze sharpened. “Why not?”
“Elvira said storage was becoming an issue. She had the older footage deleted every thirty days unless there was an incident.”
Alejandro’s voice dropped. “And you listened to her?”
Marcus stiffened. “She said it was your order.”
The room went cold.
Alejandro had given many cruel orders in his life. He had frightened men, ruined rivals, and built a reputation so dark that people in Houston whispered his name like a warning. But he had never ordered footage from inside his son’s wing deleted.
Not once.
“Find whatever remains,” Alejandro said. “Backups. Cloud fragments. Security logs. Access records. I want to know every person who entered Mateo’s room, the north wing, and Camila’s rooms since the night she died.”
Marcus nodded. “Yes, sir.
