Chapter 4 - The Ghost of Saltillo
The dashboard clock read 11:42 PM. The streets of Monterrey were quiet, most families tucked away in their warm homes celebrating Christmas Eve, unaware of the psychological war zone I had just escaped. In the back seat, Valentina had drifted into an exhausted, fitful sleep, her tiny face still stained with dried tears and the faint red outline of my father's handprint glowing under the streetlights.
Every logical instinct in my body screamed at me to go home, lock the doors, crawl into bed, and pretend that phone call never happened. I was just a nurse. A single mother who was already struggling to pay rent and keep her life together. What business did I have poking around family secrets, stolen fortunes, and thirty-year-old crimes?
And yet, every time I looked in the rear-view mirror and saw my daughter's bruised cheek, logic vanished. Replaced by a cold, burning determination.
My father thought he was untouchable. He thought he could hit a child, humiliate me, and rule his family like a dictator because no one had ever dared to challenge him. But Carmen's words echoed in my mind: The Andrade empire is built on theft, betrayal, and a body they buried in the dark.
I shifted the car into gear, made a sharp U-turn, and headed toward downtown Monterrey, toward Juarez Street.
Juarez Street at midnight was a different world. The upscale boutiques and sparkling holiday displays of San Pedro gave way to old, weathered concrete buildings, iron-barred windows, and flickering neon signs that buzzed in the damp night air. It was a historic district, filled with structures that had stood for a century, holding stories that modern Monterrey had long forgotten.
Number 412 was a narrow, unassuming building wedged between an old pharmacy and a closed bakery. A dim yellow light burned above a heavy wooden door bearing faded gold lettering: Notary Public - Office of Lic. Humberto Garza (Retired).
I parked the car in front, leaving the engine idling so the heater would keep Valentina warm. I checked on her—she was still deeply asleep, clutching Tito tightly. Taking a deep, steadying breath, I stepped out into the chilly night and walked up the three worn stone steps.
Before I could even raise my hand to knock, the heavy wooden door creaked open.
Standing in the doorway was an elderly man. He was frail, with deep wrinkles etched into his face like riverbeds, thinning white hair, and sharp, intelligent eyes behind thick-rimmed glasses. He wore a tweed vest over a crisp white shirt, despite the late hour.
"Sofia Andrade," the old man said, his voice raspy but surprisingly firm. "I've been expecting you. Carmen called me ten minutes ago."
I stood frozen on the threshold, eyeing him with suspicion. "Who are you? How do you know Carmen?"
"My name is Humberto Garza," the man replied, stepping aside to motion me into the warm, dimly lit office. "I was the legal notary for the municipality of Saltillo thirty-five years ago. I am the man who notarized the documents your father forged to steal everything your family owned."
My feet moved on their own, carrying me across the threshold into an office that smelled of old paper, leatherbound books, and pipe tobacco. Shelves lined the walls, crammed with dusty files, ledgers, and boxes.
"Forged documents?" I asked, closing the door behind me and locking it with a heavy click. "My father is a businessman. He built his company through hard work—"
"Your father built his company on blood and ink," Humberto interrupted, walking over to a heavy mahogany desk. Resting in the center of the desk was a metal lockbox, old and scratched, secured with a brass padlock that looked like it hadn't been opened in decades.
Humberto sat down slowly, wincing slightly as if his joints ached, and gestured for me to take the chair opposite him.
"Sit down, Sofia," he said gently. "What you are about to see will change everything you thought you knew about your bloodline. Your father, Roberto Andrade, wasn't always an Andrade. Do you know where he came from?"
I sat down, gripping the edge of the desk. "He always told us his family was from the capital, that they lost everything in an economic crash."
Humberto let out a dry, humorless chuckle. "A convenient lie. Your father's real name was Roberto Valdés. He was an orphan from a poor neighborhood in Saltillo, a charming con man with zero prospects and a talent for forgery. He managed to charm Elena—your mother—when she was just twenty years old. Elena belonged to the Morales family, a wealthy landowner family with vast agricultural holdings in Coahuila."
My breath hitched. "My mother's family... they were rich?"
"Extremely rich," Humberto nodded. "And Elena was the sole heir to the estate, because her older brother, Esteban Morales, was supposed to inherit the primary share. Esteban was protective of his sister. He saw right through Roberto. He knew Roberto only wanted the land, the money, the status."
Humberto reached into his vest pocket, pulled out a small brass key, and inserted it into the padlock of the metal box. The lock clicked open with a sharp snap that made me jump.
"One night in November 1991," Humberto continued, lifting the lid of the box, "Esteban Morales disappeared. His body was found three days later at the bottom of a rugged cliff outside Saltillo. The police ruled it an accidental fall during a late-night hike. But there was no hike, Sofia. I saw the confidential coroner's report before it was mysteriously 'lost' from the archives."
He reached into the box and pulled out a yellowed, fragile manila folder, sliding it across the desk toward me.
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"Your father pushed him," Humberto whispered, his eyes locking onto mine. "And with Esteban dead, and your grandfather dying of a sudden, convenient heart attack a month later, your mother inherited everything. And Roberto legally changed his last name to Andrade, marrying into the fortune he murdered his way into."
I stared at the folder on the desk, my hands trembling as I reached out and opened it. Inside were police reports, death certificates, and a handwritten confession bearing a notary stamp—a confession signed by someone I had never expected to see.
