PART 1
—Your mom is not well, Julian. She's been locked in, inventing things, and then she blames me for it.
That's what the commander Julian Arriaga heard when he got out of the taxi in front of his house in San Pedro Cholula, Puebla.
He had just come from 18 days of operations in the northern mountains, with a beard, red eyes from exhaustion, and one thing on his mind: hug his mother, eat a bowl of tlalpeño soup, and sleep without boots.
But before he touched the gate, he heard a loud, sharp knock from the second floor.
Then another.
And then his mother's voice, Doña Remedios, 69 years old, breaking behind a closed door:
—Julian! Son, please! I'm here!
On the porch, Valeria, his wife, was talking to three neighbors as if she were giving a press conference. She was wearing a white pantsuit, a linen blouse, and those golden earrings she wore when she wanted to look like a good person.
—The poor woman is confused, said with perfect sadness. Yesterday, she said I stole her phone. Can you imagine? She even fell and then she said I pushed her.
Julian looked up.
The curtain on his mother's room moved slightly.
Valeria rushed to him with open arms.
—My love, you're finally here.
He hugged her without squeezing.
She smelled like expensive perfume, almond cream, and nerves.
—Why is my mom locked up?
Valeria blinked.
—For her safety. Doctor Medina said she could harm herself. Seriously, Julian, these days have been terrible.
He didn't argue.
In the National Guard, he had learned that guilty people talk too much when they think they've already won.
So he smiled, waved at the neighbors, and went in carrying his backpack. He asked about the patio's humidity, the gas bill, and a broken pot.
Valeria relaxed.
She thought Julian was still the same husband who trusted her because he didn't have time to be suspicious.
When the neighbors left, he went up to the second floor. He knew where Valeria kept the important keys: inside a makeup case, under her false eyelashes.
The key was there.
He opened it.
The room smelled of confinement and fear.
There was no TV, no phone, the window was secured with an extra lock. On the floor, there was a plastic cup, a thin blanket, and a bowl of cold beans.
Doña Remedios was sitting next to the closet.
She had her hair disheveled, the same clothes from the video call four days ago, and dark bruises on both wrists.
But her eyes were clear.
Terribly clear.
—I'm not crazy, she whispered.
Julian felt the air leave his chest.
—I know, Mom.
She tried to stand up, but they heard footsteps in the hallway.
Immediately, she lowered her gaze and put on a lost face, as if she didn't know where she was.
—Not yet, she murmured.—She checks everything.
Julian understood.
He closed the door from the outside with a calm that broke his heart.
That night, Valeria made chiles en nogada and opened a bottle of wine as if they were celebrating his return.
—Your mom got worse, she said, leaving a folder on the table.—Tomorrow, a geriatrician will evaluate her. If she confirms cognitive decline, you simply sign this power of attorney, and I'll take care of selling her house in the city.
Julian looked at the papers.
—Sell her house?
—Well, yes. It's old, poorly located, and we can get good money. There's already a buyer.
That word froze him.
"Already".
At midnight, he checked the security cameras. The last three months were deleted.
But Valeria didn't know that the system saved access to the cloud.
Everything had been deleted from her laptop.
Then he found his mother's email open on Valeria's computer. The bank statements were altered. There was a pending transfer for 1,480,000 pesos.
Julian placed a recorder under the table.
He changed the passwords.
And before dawn, he went back to the room.
—Mom, tomorrow I need you to act confused.
Doña Remedios looked at her bruised wrists.
Then she smiled with a coldness that her son had never seen before.
—How confused, mijo?
—
