Chapter 3: The Woman in the Red Coat
The woman downstairs refused to give her name.
She told the hospital receptionist that she wouldn't speak to anyone except me, and when security asked why, she reportedly answered with six words.
"Because Valeria is still in danger.""
Detective Cole received the message while standing beside my bed.
His expression changed immediately.
"Where is she now?""
"Waiting in the lobby," Denise replied.
"Security has kept her away from the patient floors.""
Cole turned to me.
"Do you recognize the voice?""
"I can't hear her from here.""
"That's true."" He considered this.
"I'll speak with her first. If she is connected to the incident, we'll establish her identity and determine whether she can safely come upstairs.""
I caught his wrist.
"Please don't let her leave.""
He looked down at my hand.
"Why?""
"Because she might be the only person who knows what really happened in that garage.""
He nodded once.
"I'll make sure we speak with her.""
Then he stepped into the hallway.
I listened to his footsteps fading toward the elevators.
The hospital room suddenly felt much too quiet.
My body ached with every small movement. I couldn't stand without assistance, couldn't turn my head quickly, and couldn't even wipe away the tears that gathered when memories rose too fast.
But my mind was beginning to work again.
The woman in the red coat.
My father's words.
Once she signs, there won't be anything left for her to take from me.
What had I been supposed to sign?
I'd never considered myself wealthy. I rented a modest apartment, worked as an administrative coordinator at an insurance office, and kept enough savings to survive a few months without a paycheck.
My father had never asked me to manage his business.
He had certainly never asked me to sign away anything important.
Or so I thought.
At 9:30 p.m., my mother arrived again.
This time, she didn't shout.
She stood beyond the doorway with her arms folded, waiting for a nurse to finish checking my IV.
"Valeria," she said when Denise stepped away.
I didn't answer.
She glanced at the corridor as though making sure no one was listening.
"I need to talk to you.""
I looked at her pearl earrings instead of her face.
"You already told me everything you wanted to say.""
Her mouth tightened.
"Don't be childish.""
The familiar phrase made something inside me go quiet.
For years, she had used it whenever I refused to accept an insult. If I cried, I was childish. If I questioned my father, I was disrespectful. If I asked why she never defended me, I was selfish.
Now I was lying in a hospital bed, barely able to breathe, and she was still trying to make my pain sound like a personality flaw.
"What do you want, Mom?""
She flinched at the word, but only briefly.
"Your father is under enormous pressure.""
I stared at her.
"Is that why he came here three times while I was unconscious?""
Her eyes widened.
"Who told you that?""
"The detective.""
She stepped closer to the bed.
"You shouldn't be talking to the police about family matters.""
I felt my pulse quicken.
"Family matters?""
"Your father is a respected businessman. There are people who would love to damage his reputation. You have no idea what you've set in motion.""
I watched her face.
"Did he tell you to come here?""
"He is your father.""
"That wasn't my question.""
Her jaw tightened.
For the first time, I saw something behind her anger that resembled fear.
She glanced at the door again.
"He's made mistakes, Valeria. Everyone does.""
"Was the woman at the motel one of his mistakes?""
My mother's eyes filled with tears.
For a moment, I thought she might finally tell the truth.
Instead, she pressed a tissue to her nose and shook her head.
"You've always wanted to believe the worst about him.""
"I recorded him.""
"You followed him.""
"I saw him.""
"Because you were looking for something to use against him!""
Her voice rose so abruptly that I recoiled.
Pain tore through my ribs.
She noticed, but she didn't apologize.
Instead, she leaned down, careful to keep her voice low.
"Listen to me. Give your father the recording, and all of this can end.""
I stared at her.
The room seemed to stop moving.
"You know about the second copy.""
Her eyes widened.
It was answer enough.
I had not mentioned a second copy to her.
I had barely mentioned it to Detective Cole.
Yet my mother had walked into the hospital and told me to give my father the recording.
"Who told you about the second copy?"" I whispered.
She straightened so quickly that her bracelet struck the bed rail.
"I don't know what you're talking about.""
"You just said—"
"I said give your father the recording!""
Her voice cracked through the room.
The monitor began beeping faster.
Denise hurried inside.
"Mrs. Santos, you need to step away from the bed.""
My mother lifted both hands in exaggerated innocence.
"I'm her mother.""
"And she's recovering from serious injuries. You need to lower your voice.""
"I have every right to speak to my daughter.""
Denise moved between us.
"Not if she's asking you to leave.""
My mother turned toward me.
The look she gave me was not grief.
It was calculation.
"You're making a terrible mistake," she whispered.
Then she left.
I lay still until the door closed.
My chest hurt so badly that I could barely form a sentence.
Denise adjusted my oxygen tubing and checked the monitor.
"Do you want me to call Detective Cole?""
"Yes.""
She picked up the room phone.
When Cole answered, Denise spoke in a hushed voice, then handed the receiver to me.
"I'm here," he said.
"My mother knows about the second copy.""
There was a short silence.
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