Chapter 3 - Footsteps in the Hall
The words on the yellow paper seemed to suck all the remaining air out of the kitchen.
"That's Sofia’s handwriting," Lupita whispered, covering her mouth with both hands. "Don Ernesto's daughter. But... Miguel, Sofia died two years ago. We went to her wake. We saw the casket!"
"Look at the date on the bottom," Miguel urged, turning the paper toward her. "September fourth. Two months after Mateo vanished. Sofia didn't die in that hit-and-run, Lupita. Someone staged that accident. Someone buried an empty casket or another victim entirely, and she was hiding out there with her son."
Before Lupita could process the revelation, heavy, uneven footsteps thumped up the wooden stairs outside their hallway door. The floorboards groaned under a familiar, lumbering weight.
It was Don Ernesto.
Canela went rigid instantly. Her ears pinned back, and a vicious, chest-rattling growl began deep in her throat. Miguel lunged across the floor, clapping his hand gently around the dog’s snout to muffle her warning, while Lupita swept the hospital band, the note, and the photo into her apron pocket.
BAM! BAM! BAM!
The cheap hollow-core door rattled in its frame.
"Miguel! Open the damn door!" Ernesto’s voice barked through the wood, gravelly and thick with smoke. "I saw your rig parked outside taking up two tenant spaces. You know the rules about commercial parking in my lot!"
Lupita threw a kitchen towel over the box of puppies, smoothing her hair with trembling hands before stepping forward to unlock the deadbolt. She pulled the door open just a few inches, blocking the gap with her slender frame.
"Good evening, Don Ernesto," she said, forcing her voice into a steady, polite pitch. "Miguel just got back from a three-day haul down from Monterrey. He was exhausted. He’s moving the truck right now."
Through the gap, Ernesto’s sunken, bloodshot eyes darted around the perimeter of the doorway. He was sixty-five, with a face like weathered leather, wearing an oil-stained work vest over an undershirt. A heavy iron keychain dangled from his belt, clinking with every shift of his weight.
Then, his gaze dropped to the floorboards near Lupita’s bare feet.
A single red smear—dried blood from Canela’s torn paw pad—marked the threshold.
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"What’s that?" Ernesto snapped, pointing a stubby, nicotine-stained finger. "You running an illegal butcher shop in here? Or did you bring another stray into my property? I told you, Lupita, no pets. One more violation and your deposit is gone, along with your lease."
Inside the kitchen, Canela let out a low, muffled whine that vibrated through the linoleum. Ernesto’s eyes widened, his head jerking toward the sound.
