Chapter 9 - The GunshotBefore Rodrigo could draw whatever was tucked into his belt, the two private security guards rushed up the steps, their hands holstered on their sidearms.
"Hands where we can see them! Now!" the lead guard shouted.
Rodrigo froze, his hand still under his shirt. For a split second, he looked like a cornered animal, calculating his chances. Then, with a bitter curse, he slowly pulled his hand out, holding an old leather-bound ledger—not a weapon.
"You want it?" Rodrigo sneered, throwing the heavy ledger onto the wooden porch floor at Teresa’s feet. "Take it! Take the whole damn place! See what's left of your precious ranch!"
He shoved past the security guards, stepping off the porch and heading toward his muddy pickup truck parked near the barn.
"Rodrigo!" Teresa called out, her heart pounding against her ribs.
"Don't follow me!" he screamed over his shoulder, sliding into the cab of his truck and slamming the door. The engine roared to life, tires spitting gravel as he tore down the driveway, disappearing down the dusty highway in a cloud of red smoke.
Teresa stood on the porch, her breathing heavy, staring at the cloud of dust.
Victoria leaned down and picked up the leather ledger Rodrigo had thrown down. She flipped through the yellowed pages, her eyebrows rising in shock as she scanned the handwriting.
"Teresa..." Victoria whispered, her tone suddenly hushed, deadly serious. "You need to see this."
Teresa walked over. "What is it?"
"This isn't just a ranch record," Victoria said, pointing to a page dated six years ago. "These are personal diary entries Rodrigo kept. Look at the entry from October 14, 2020—the night before he discharged Mariana from the hospital."
Teresa leaned in, reading her son's jagged, tight handwriting:
October 14: She keeps asking for her mother. The doctors say her memory is broken, but she remembers Elena. If she goes home to Houston, Elena will find out about the loan I took out in Mariana's name before the accident. I have to get her out of the hospital tonight. If I bring her to the ranch, she will only know what I tell her. She will belong to me.
Teresa felt a cold sweat break out across her back. It was a written confession. A premeditated plan of kidnapping, fraud, and psychological torture.
Suddenly, a loud, echoing crack shattered the silence of the afternoon.
May you like
POP.
The sound came from the high pasture near the old windmill—a single gunshot echoing across the dry hills.
