Chapter 20 - The Secret in the Mail
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"Apologies for the interruption, sir," Hector said, his face unusually grim as he approached the patio table. "This package just arrived via a private courier. It was flagged by security because the return address is a P.O. Box in Toronto, Canada."
I frowned, sitting back in my chair. Toronto. The fake destination I had used months ago when I initiated the security lockdown. It was a strange coincidence.
"Did security scan it?" I asked.
"Yes, sir. No explosives or biological agents. But the courier explicitly stated it was for your eyes only."
I took the battered brown envelope from Hector's hands. It felt light, containing only a few pieces of paper. Marisol watched me curiously from across the table, her dark eyes reflecting the fading sunset.
I broke the wax seal and pulled out the contents.
It wasn't a letter or a legal document. It was a single, faded 8x10 photograph, along with a folded piece of heavy cardstock.
I flipped the photograph over.
The air left my lungs in a violent, agonizing rush. My heart stopped beating. The world around me seemed to tilt dangerously on its axis, the beautiful sunset suddenly feeling like a mocking illusion.
The photograph was dated ten years ago. It showed a bustling street corner in Mexico City.
Standing in the center of the frame, looking directly into the camera, was Marisol. She looked younger, her face hardened by a life I didn't recognize.
But she wasn't alone.
She was holding hands with a tall, heavily tattooed man. They looked intimate, deeply connected, smiling as if they shared a dark secret.
I knew the man in the photograph. I saw his face in my nightmares every single night.
It was the drunk driver who had run a red light and killed my wife, Elena, before fleeing across the border and disappearing forever.
My hands began to shake uncontrollably. I slowly unfolded the piece of cardstock that had accompanied the photo.
Written in neat, typed letters was a single sentence:
The woman raising your daughters is the reason they don't have a mother.
I slowly looked up from the photograph, my chest heaving, the blood roaring in my ears like a freight train.
May you like
Marisol was still looking at me, her warm, beautiful smile slowly faltering as she saw the sheer, unadulterated horror spreading across my face.
"Alexander?" she whispered, her voice laced with sudden concern. "What is it? What's wrong?"
