“You understand this is dangerous.”
“Yes.”
“I cannot ethically advise you to use yourselves as bait.”
“You don’t have to advise it,” you say. “You just have to know what happens if we don’t come back.”
Arturo flinches.
Grace studies you for a long moment.
Then she opens a drawer and removes a card.
“This is a retired state police investigator I work with. His name is Marcus Hale. You call him before you go. You share your location. You text me when you arrive, and you text me every fifteen minutes. If you miss one, I call him.”
You take the card.
Grace’s voice softens.
“And Elena?”
“Yes?”
“If you get one clear chance to leave before anything happens, take it. Evidence is not worth your life.”
You think of Diego at the bottom of that cliff twenty years ago.
You think of Lucía crying fake tears into your shoulder.
You think of your grandchildren, Mateo and Sofia, being raised by a woman who could push blood over stone and still come home for dinner.
“My son never got that chance,” you say.
Grace says nothing.
On Saturday, the sky is painfully blue.
Lucía arrives at your house at ten in the morning wearing a cream sweater, hiking boots, and the bright smile she uses when she wants the world to believe she is a good daughter. Esteban waits in the SUV, scrolling on his phone. Your grandchildren are not with them.
That tells you something.
“Where are the kids?” you ask.
Lucía’s smile does not move.
“With a sitter. I thought today should just be us adults. You know, quiet.”
Quiet.
A word that now sounds like a grave being covered.
Arturo loads a picnic basket into the back. His recorder is sewn into the lining of his jacket. Yours is tucked inside your scarf. Your phone is sharing location with Grace and Marcus Hale. You have already sent the first text.
Leaving now.
Lucía hugs you.
Her perfume is soft and floral, the same perfume she wore at Diego’s memorial.
You nearly gag.
“Mom,” she says, pulling back. “You look tired.”
“I slept badly.”
“You worry too much.”
You smile.
“I’m learning not to ignore that.”
For one second, her eyes sharpen.
Then she laughs.
The drive to Blue Ridge Overlook takes nearly two hours. Esteban drives. Lucía sits in the front passenger seat, turning back occasionally to make bright conversation about fall leaves, her workshop, school activities, family holidays. She does not mention the will.
Not at first.
Arturo holds your hand in the back seat.
His palm is damp.
Halfway there, Lucía finally sighs.
“I spoke to a financial planner.”
Of course she did.
You look out the window at the trees passing in streaks of orange.
“About what?”
“You and Dad. The house. The land. Your savings. It’s irresponsible to keep everything scattered.”
Arturo’s fingers tighten around yours.
Lucía continues, “If something happens to you, probate could become a nightmare. You know how courts are. Lawyers drain everything. I’m only trying to protect the family.”
You turn toward her.
“Which family?”
She blinks.
“What?”
“You said protect the family. I wondered which one.”
Esteban glances at you in the rearview mirror.
Lucía laughs lightly.
“Mom, don’t start.”
You say nothing.
She turns back toward the windshield.
The car grows quiet.
Your phone buzzes once in your coat pocket.
Grace.
Location received. Marcus nearby.
Nearby.
You breathe.
At the overlook, the wind is sharper than expected.
