Chapter 3 - THE APARTMENT RAID
The morning sun filtered through the horizontal blinds of the hospital room, casting thin stripes of light across the white floor. Dr. Morales returned during her morning rounds, checked Mariana’s vital signs, and delivered cautiously optimistic news.
"The contractions have completely stopped, and Mrs. Vance’s blood pressure has stabilized," Dr. Morales announced, tapping her digital tablet. "However, given the level of physical trauma and the emotional shock she’s experienced, I want her to remain under observation for at least another forty-eight hours. Complete bed rest is non-negotiable."
"Thank you, Doctor," I said, standing beside the bed. "I'll stay right here with her."
"Actually, Julian," Mariana interrupted gently, catching my arm. "You need to go back to the apartment."
I frowned, shaking my head. "I'm not leaving you alone here."
"You have to," she insisted, her gaze steady. "My passport, my green card renewal documents, our savings passbook, and the baby's medical file are locked in the bottom drawer of our nightstand. If your mother still has access to that building—if she somehow managed to convince the landlord or building security to let her in—she could destroy those papers or take them. We need them if we’re going to file a restraining order and secure our lives."
She was right. As much as every fiber of my being rebelled against leaving her side, we needed our legal and financial documents.
"I'll go," I agreed reluctantly, leaning down to kiss her forehead. "I'll lock the hospital door, tell the nurses not to let anyone in, and drive straight there and back. I won't be gone for more than an hour."
The drive across Mexico City traffic was agonizingly slow. Every car honk and traffic light felt like a personal insult keeping me away from the hospital. When I finally pulled up to our apartment building, I scanned the street for my mother’s car, but thankfully, the curb was empty.
I hurried up the stairs to our third-floor unit, pulled out my keys, and unlocked the front door.
The moment I stepped inside, I froze.
The apartment was not as I had left it in the frantic rush of the previous night. The front door had been unlocked—or forced open.
My heart hammered against my ribs as I rushed down the hallway toward our bedroom.
The scene inside our bedroom made my blood run cold. The mattress had been pulled halfway off the bed frame. Pillows and blankets were tossed across the floor. The wooden nightstand where Mariana kept her personal documents had been pulled out from the wall, its drawers yanked open and completely emptied. Papers, receipts, and old medical envelopes were scattered like confetti across the hardwood floor.
Someone had ransacked our room. And I didn't need a detective to tell me who it was.
"Carmen..." I hissed under my breath, my hands balling into fists.
She must have used her spare key before I demanded it back the night before—or she had a duplicate made months ago, knowing her control over us was slipping. She had come here looking for ammunition, looking to destroy whatever proof Mariana had, or perhaps trying to steal Mariana's personal identification documents to trap her legally.
I dropped to my knees, frantically sorting through the scattered papers on the floor to see what was missing.
Amidst the mess, my fingers brushed against a small, hard plastic object tucked beneath the baseboard heater near the closet. I pulled it out. It was a digital voice recorder—a small, black device with a blinking red LED light.
Frowning, I pressed the playback button.
Static hissed from the tiny speaker for a second, followed immediately by the unmistakable sound of my mother's voice, recorded right here in this bedroom just a few days ago.
"...you think Julian cares about your little sob stories?" Carmen’s recorded voice sneered, crisp and venomous. "He is a Vance. He cares about family reputation, not some penniless girl from the provinces. If you try to tell him anything, I'll make sure he throws you out on the street with nothing."
Then came Mariana’s voice, trembling and small: "Please, señora... just leave me alone."
"I'll leave when I'm good and ready," Carmen snapped on the recording. "And remember: if you ever make a sound while he's sleeping, I have ways of making you regret the day you met my son."
The device clicked off.
I sat there on the bedroom floor, holding the tiny recorder in my hand, tears of burning shame and rage spilling down my cheeks. My mother hadn't just abused my wife; she had recorded her cruelty, treating Mariana's psychological torture like a sport. She had kept it as a trophy or insurance.
Suddenly, the front door of the apartment clicked open.
Footsteps echoed softly in the hallway—slow, deliberate, and entirely too familiar.
"Julian? Are you home already, my boy?"
My mother’s voice drifted into the bedroom. She sounded calm, composed, and sickeningly sweet, as if she were dropping by to bring groceries on a sunny Sunday afternoon.
I stood up slowly, pocketing the digital recorder, and stepped out of the bedroom into the hallway.
May you like
Doña Carmen stood in the living room, dressed in her immaculate Sunday blazer, holding a small canvas tote bag. She stopped dead in her tracks when she saw me standing there, towering over her with eyes that I knew looked murderous.
For a split second, her composure wavered. Then, the mask of the aggrieved, loving mother slid right back into place.
