Chapter 75: CHAPTER 76
Two weeks passed after the trial.
The press had covered Andrés’s case with headlines far more decent than Julieta had expected.
Ernesto had done his job.
Her name appeared as little as possible, and when it did, it appeared as that of a surviving victim—not as a trial witness, and certainly not as Vladimir Rossi’s partner.
The mansion had settled into a new rhythm.
A slow one.
A rhythm adjusted to a man in recovery, a woman who had recently given birth, a six-year-old girl with questions, and a three-month-old baby who had quietly become the center of the household.
The call came on a Thursday.
Julieta was sitting on the sofa in the small sitting room, Lucio asleep across her lap, sketching in a notebook.
The phone rang.
Unknown number.
She almost didn’t answer.
Then, for reasons she couldn’t quite explain, she did.
“Hello?”
“Julieta.”
A man’s voice.
Older.
“Who is this?”
“José. José Morales. Do you remember me?”
Julieta slowly closed the notebook.
“José.”
“Yes.”
“The detective.”
“The very same.”
“I remember. Of course I remember.”
José Morales had handled her case seven years earlier.
He was the detective who had pulled her out of the basement.
Back then he had been a man in his fifties—quiet, efficient, with that particular way of speaking to victims that separated the good ones from everyone else.
He had been there through the first statements, through the shelter, through the early months of the case against Manuel.
Later, when Manuel turned up dead in prison, José had stepped away because the case was officially closed.
But before leaving, he had given Julieta a phone number and a sentence.
If anything ever happens to you—anything at all—call. You don’t have to explain.
She never had.
She had kept the little piece of paper for years.
But she had never called.
“How did you get this number?”
“You appeared in an article about Andrés Guzmán’s trial. Not your full name, but enough for me to recognize you. I asked a friend who’s still with the prosecutor’s office. He didn’t give me your number. He gave me a family contact route. I worked my way here from that. I promise it wasn’t easy. If you want, we can stop right here. I’m not calling to interfere. I called to find out if you’re okay.”
Julieta smiled into the phone.
José Morales still spoke exactly the way José Morales had spoken seven years ago.
Always asking permission before doing anything.
“And why did you call, José?”
“To find out if you’re okay.”
“I’m okay.”
“That’s what I wanted to hear.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s all.”
“José.”
“Yes?”
“You’re the worst liar in the world.”
A brief laugh came from the other end.
“All right. That—and because I’d like to see you. If you’d want that. Coffee. Nothing more. And if you don’t want to, let me be very clear: that’s perfectly fine. You’ll never hear from me again, and I won’t hold it against you.”
Julieta thought for two seconds.
“Coffee.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow.”
“But here, José. At the mansion. I don’t go out much with the baby yet.”
“You have a baby?”
“I have a baby.”
“Well.”
“Well.”
“Tomorrow, then. At the mansion. Give me a time.”
“Four o’clock. Come alone. And let me know if you’re running late, because security here is strict. If you’re not on the list, you won’t get in.”
“I’ll be on the list.”
“You already are.”
José arrived the next day at exactly four.
He stepped out of a modest car wearing a dark blue jacket over a white shirt.
His shoes were old but polished.
He was older.
That was only natural.
He had to be sixty or more now.
His hair was nearly white.
His face carried the wrinkles of a man who had spent a lifetime looking at ugly things.
But it was still the same face.
That calm, round face of someone who listened.
Julieta met him on the porch.
When José saw her coming down the steps with Lucio in her arms, he stopped.
For a second he simply stood there looking at her.
Then he approached, took her hand, and held it between both of his.
“Julieta.”
“José.”
“You’re whole.”
“I’m whole.”
“And you have a baby.”
“And I have a baby.”
“A boy?”
“A boy. Lucio.”
“Lucio. Beautiful name.”
“Thank you.”
She led him into the small sitting room.
Rosa brought coffee and cookies.
Mario appeared in the doorway at the back.
He looked José over with the expression of a man making an assessment.
José met the look with the expression of a man who had been assessed a thousand times and no longer minded.
Mario nodded.
Then left.
They sat.
They talked for an hour.
José told her what had become of him.
He had retired from the police two years earlier.
He lived alone.
A niece visited him on Sundays.
His medical checkups were all under control.
He taught a course for young investigators on Wednesdays.
“Mostly so I don’t spend the whole day in silence.”
Julieta told him only what was necessary.
About the mansion.
About Vladimir.
About the coma.
About the baby.
About the trial.
She didn’t describe the basement at the estate.
She didn’t need to.
José knew how to read omissions.
“And Vladimir?”
“Recovering. He’s walking now. Slowly, but he’s walking. He’s upstairs with Gabriela. He’ll come down in a minute.”
“He knows I’m here?”
“I told him this morning.”
“And?”
Julieta smiled as she shifted Lucio to her other arm.
“He’s spent the entire day asking questions.”
“I suspected as much.”
“Don’t worry. It gives him something to do. He’s gone months without having anything to be jealous about. He needed the exercise.”
Vladimir came downstairs at twenty minutes to five.
Using his cane.
Slowly.
With the concentration every stair now demanded of him.
Gabriela came behind him.
He reached the sitting room and stopped in the doorway.
“Good afternoon.”
“Vladimir,” Julieta said. “José Morales. José, Vladimir.”
José stood.
Extended his hand.
Vladimir crossed the room with his cane and took it.
A firm handshake.
Not exaggerated.
José received it well.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Rossi.”
“Likewise. I’ve heard about you from my wife and from an old friend in the prosecutor’s office. The way you handled the Manuel Carvajal case years ago showed sound judgment. I wanted to tell you that.”
“Thank you. We did what we could at the time.”
“You did more than that.”
Vladimir sat beside Julieta.
He draped an arm along the back of the sofa.
Not obviously.
Just there.
Julieta noticed.
She glanced sideways at him.
Said nothing.
Inside, she felt a laugh rising.
José sat down again.
He gestured toward Lucio.
“May I hold him?”
“Of course.”
Julieta handed him over.
José received the baby with the gentle awkwardness of older men who haven’t held children in a long time.
He settled Lucio into the crook of his arm.
Studied his face.
“He has your nose.”
“He has his father’s nose, José.”
“It resembles his father’s, yes. But there’s a little bit of you in the jaw. He’s a beautiful boy.”
“Thank you.”
José looked at him for a moment.
Then spoke softly to the baby.
“Lucio. Pleasure to meet you, young man. I’m an old friend of your mother’s.”
He smiled faintly.
“I wish you the very best in the world, son. Truly. That you grow up healthy. That you grow up happy. That you grow up with an ordinary life.”
His voice softened.
“That’s the only thing worth having in this world, young man. An ordinary life.”
He glanced at Julieta.
“And you have a mother who earned that twice.”
He handed Lucio back carefully.
Julieta said nothing.
Her eyes filled, but she held herself together.
They talked a little longer.
At half past five José stood.
“I don’t want to impose. I should go.”
“You’re not imposing, José.”
“One hour with a baby is enough for a first visit. If you ever want me back, call. If not, that’s fine too.”
“You’ll come back.”
“If you say so.”
Julieta walked him to the door.
Vladimir stood as well.
He offered his hand again.
“Mr. Morales.”
“Mr. Rossi.”
“Take care of yourself.”
“You too.”
José held his gaze for a second longer than necessary.
Vladimir returned the look.
Something passed between them in that second.
Something both men understood and neither would ever say aloud.
A brief conversation between a man who had spent years loving quietly and another man who had been the fortunate one.
They shook hands again.
Then let go.
When José climbed into his car and drove away, Vladimir closed the door and turned to Julieta.
“Mami Julieta.”
“Yes?”
“That man was in love with you.”
“Yes.”
“For how many years?”
“All of them.”
“And he never told you.”
“Never.”
“That’s what a gentleman looks like.”
“That’s what a gentleman looks like.”
“I wouldn’t have managed it.”
“That’s why I loved you, Vladimir.”
She ran a hand along his cheek.
Then kissed him lightly, over the cane, with Lucio between them.
“Are you jealous?”
“A little.”
“He’s a man in his late sixties.”
“A little.”
“Vladimir.”
“Yes?”
“Be quiet and carry me upstairs. The baby is heavy.”
Vladimir laughed.
A short laugh.
Rough.
Still recovering.
But laughter all the same.
And the three of them went upstairs together.
Slowly.
Holding on to one another so none of them would fall.