Chapter 2 - The Eyes of the Innocent
At five o’clock the following morning, the kitchen of the Santillán mansion was bathed in the dim, gray light of dawn.
Marisol was awake, her heart heavy with anxiety. She had spent the night awake in her small room, packing her and Valentina’s modest belongings into two worn vinyl suitcases. She was certain that after yesterday’s disaster in the dining room, Mauricio would have them thrown out before breakfast.
She was tying Valentina’s shoelaces when the kitchen door opened.
It wasn't Mauricio. It was Julián, carrying a silver tray with a pot of fresh coffee and a basket of warm pan dulce.
“Good morning, Marisol,” Julián said softly, a gentle smile on his weathered face.
Marisol stood up quickly, clutching Valentina’s small hand. “Julián… is Mr. Mauricio coming to kick us out? The bags are packed. We can leave through the service gate right now, I don’t want any trouble—”
“Put your bags away, child,” Julián interrupted gently. “You aren't going anywhere.”
Marisol blinked, stunned. “What?”
“Don Rodrigo personally countermanded Mauricio’s order,” Julián explained, setting the tray down. “In fact, Don Rodrigo has requested that you bring his breakfast to his private sunroom upstairs today. Just you and Valentina.”
Valentina, sitting on a wooden chair with a half-eaten piece of cinnamon bread, looked up with bright, curious eyes. “Is the blind man going to let me try the blue cookies today?”
“Valentina, shh!” Marisol gasped, blushing wildly. “You must call him Don Rodrigo!”
“It’s alright,” Julián chuckled softly, though his eyes sparkled with unshed tears. “Don Rodrigo specifically asked for 'the little girl with the crooked bow.' Go on up, Marisol. But be careful. Mauricio is watching the corridors.”
Ten minutes later, Marisol knocked nervously on the carved door of the second-floor sunroom. The room was bright, filled with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the manicured rear gardens, though the heavy velvet drapes were partially drawn to block the harsh light that Rodrigo’s sensitive, damaged optic nerves could no longer process.
Rodrigo sat near a small marble table, dressed in a sharp gray wool sweater and dark trousers.
“Come in, Marisol,” he said immediately, hearing the soft click of her flats and the tiny, irregular patter of Valentina’s sneakers.
“Good morning, Don Rodrigo,” Marisol said timidly. “I… I want to thank you for letting us stay. I promise I will keep Valentina out of your sight—”
“I don’t want her out of my sight, Marisol,” Rodrigo said gently. “Or rather, out of my hearing. Sit down, please.”
Marisol sat on the edge of a velvet armchair, while Valentina immediately marched over to Rodrigo’s chair, leaning her chin comfortably on his knee.
“You smell like peppermint today, mister,” Valentina observed loudly.
Rodrigo’s lips twitched into a genuine smile—a sight so rare that Marisol held her breath. He reached out his large, calloused hand and rested it gently on top of Valentina’s curly head.
“It’s tea, Vale,” Rodrigo said. Then, his face turned serious as he turned toward Marisol. “Marisol, I need to ask you something, and I need you to answer me with absolute honesty. Your job—and perhaps much more than that—depends on your discretion.”
Marisol straightened her back. “Anything, sir.”
“Can you read well?”
Marisol hesitated, feeling a momentary prick of shame. “I didn't finish university, sir. My father passed away and I had to work. But I finished high school. I can read legal contracts, ledgers, and formal Spanish without trouble.”
Rodrigo nodded slowly, a deep sense of relief washing over him. “Good. Because I cannot trust my computer’s screen-reading software. Mauricio had the mansion’s network updated three years ago, and I suspect every document read aloud to me by the machine has been filtered or altered through his central server.”
Rodrigo reached into his inner pocket and pulled out a small, tarnished brass key.
“Under the floorboards in the linen closet down the hall,” Rodrigo instructed in a disciplined, whispered tone, “there is a steel lockbox that belonged to my late father. Mauricio does not know it exists. Inside are personal diaries, old bank account ledger numbers, and letters. During my afternoon rest hours—when Mauricio leaves the estate to inspect the company offices in Polanco—I want you to bring that box here and read its contents to me.”
Marisol gasped softly. “Sir... if Mr. Mauricio catches me going into your private boxes—”
“He won't,” Rodrigo said fiercely. “Because from this moment on, you are not just a maid in this house. You are my eyes. Will you help me, Marisol?”
Marisol looked down at her daughter, who was happily tracing the silver embroidery on Rodrigo’s sleeve. She thought about Mauricio’s cruel sneers, the way he underpaid her, the way he treated the household staff like disposable cattle, and the cold, lifeless misery that had hung over this mansion like a smog.
“I will help you, Don Rodrigo,” Marisol said firmly. “Whatever you need.”
That afternoon at two o’clock, the heavy iron gates of the estate opened, and Mauricio’s black Mercedes sedan pulled out toward the avenue.
Inside the sunroom, the door was locked. Marisol sat on the rug beside Rodrigo’s chair, the dusty steel lockbox open before her. Valentina was sitting nearby with a pad of paper and colored pencils, quietly drawing a picture of a house with a giant yellow sun.
Marisol pulled out the first bundle of documents—yellowed bank statements and carbon-copy correspondence from seven years ago.
“Read the dates on the correspondence from the private clinic in Cuernavaca,” Rodrigo instructed, his voice tense.
Marisol flipped through the pages, her brow furrowing as her eyes scanned the formal letterheads.
“This letter is dated November 14, 2019,” Marisol read carefully. “It’s addressed to Mr. Mauricio Sandoval. It says: 'Regarding patient Isabel Gomez de Santillán. The monthly medical allocation of one hundred and fifty thousand pesos has been received. Patient remains under full medical supervision and sedation at Sanatorium Santa María in Tepotzlan. As per your instructions, no external visits or phone communications are permitted.'”
The air in the sunroom seemed to vanish.
Rodrigo went dead silent. His hands trembled violently on his lap.
“Read... read that name again,” Rodrigo choked out, his voice sounding as if it were being torn from his throat.
“'Patient Isabel Gomez de Santillán,'” Marisol repeated, her own eyes widening in utter horror as the reality of the words hit her. “Don Rodrigo... your wife... she didn't leave the country! She’s... she’s in a private psychiatric facility in Tepotzlan!”
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Rodrigo covered his face with both hands and let out a sound—a low, agonizing howl of pure, unadulterated heartbreak that made Valentina drop her crayons and run to wrap her small arms around his legs.
“She’s alive,” Rodrigo sobbed, seven years of buried grief violently rupturing inside him. “My Isabel... my sweet Isabel... she never left me! He locked her away!”
