Chapter 11 - The Secret in the VentsThe text message glowed brightly on my phone screen in the quiet living room.
Check the vents in your wife's old bedroom before the foundation collapses.
Sofia felt my shoulder tense beside her. "Dad? What is it?"
"Nothing, mija," I lied smoothly, keeping my voice perfectly steady. "Just a spam text from a delivery company. Why don't you head upstairs and get some rest? I want to double-check the lock on the back patio."
She looked at me suspiciously for a second, then nodded, tired from the long day. "Okay. Goodnight, Dad."
"Goodnight, mija."
I waited until I heard her bedroom door click shut upstairs. Then I stood up, walked to the garage, and grabbed a heavy-duty flashlight and a flathead screwdriver from my tool chest.
I walked down the quiet hallway to the master suite. The air inside still carried a faint trace of Patricia's perfume, though the room had been cleared of her clothes and vanity items days ago.
The master bedroom had two air conditioning vents: one near the ceiling beside the closet, and a return vent mounted low near the floorboards behind the king-sized bed frame.
I hauled the wooden bed frame three feet away from the wall, revealing the rectangular aluminum grate set into the baseboard. The metal surface was covered in a thin layer of grey dust, but the four brass mounting screws were shiny and clean—uncreased, as if they had been removed and replaced repeatedly.
I knelt on the floor, unfastened the four screws, and pulled the metal vent cover off the wall.
I shone the beam of my flashlight deep into the dark rectangular duct.
At first, I saw nothing but metallic insulation. But three feet back, wedged firmly around a vertical bend in the sheet metal, sat a heavy, water-resistant black plastic case sealed with double latches.
I reached my arm deep into the ductwork, my knuckles scraping against the galvanized steel, until my fingers caught the plastic handle. I pulled the case out into the room.
The box was locked with a small four-digit combination pad on the front.
I looked at the tumbler locks. I tried Patricia's birth year first: 1982. No click. I tried the date of our wedding: 0614. Nothing.
Then I remembered the date on the forged life insurance policy: September 12th. 0912.
The twin latches snapped open with a sharp, metallic pop.
I lifted the lid.
Inside sat three thick stacks of wrapped hundred-dollar bills—easily fifty thousand US dollars in cash—alongside a black hard drive, two micro-SD cards, and a small, faded leather notebook with hand-sewn binding.
I picked up the notebook and opened it under the flashlight beam.
The handwriting inside didn't belong to Patricia. The ink was faded, blue, and precise—handwritten in the distinctive, elegant cursive of my late wife, Elena.
May you like
My heart hammered violently against my ribs as I read the first page:
If Gabriel or Sofia is reading this, it means I am gone, and the men who funded the logistics company have finally come to collect what my family owed them...
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