Chapter 2 - Shadows of the Mind
The room felt unnaturally cold after Detective Cole spoke those words. The steady rhythm of the heart monitor sounded like a ticking clock, counting down to a confrontation I wasn't sure I could survive.
"He wasn't asking about my health?" I repeated, my cracked lips trembling. "Not once?"
"Not once," Detective Cole answered, taking a seat in the vinyl chair beside my bed. He opened a small spiral notebook. "Hector Santos came into this building demanding to see your chart, specifically looking at the neurology reports. He wanted to know if the trauma to your temporal lobe caused retrograde amnesia."
A heavy, suffocating wave of nausea washed over me.
My father, Hector Santos, was a prominent contractor in our city—a man who built churches, donated to local charities, and carried himself like a pillar of the community. To the outside world, he was a devoted husband and a patriarch who demanded discipline. But inside our home, that discipline was a weapon. I had spent twenty-eight years tiptoeing around his explosive temper, constantly walking on eggshells to keep the peace.
"Why would I hide an original recording?" I asked, clutching my bandaged ribs. "If it was on my phone, why would there be another copy?"
"Because you knew him," Cole said quietly. "You knew what he was capable of if you backed him into a corner. Think, Valeria. Try to remember the hours leading up to the attack."
I closed my eyes, forcing my aching brain to dig through the foggy haze of the concussion.
It came in jagged, terrifying fragments.
A humid Tuesday afternoon. I was leaving a grocery store with a carton of fresh strawberries when I spotted my father's silver truck turning into the parking lot of the Pines Motel on the edge of town. I followed him on instinct, my heart in my throat. I parked behind a dumpster, pulled out my phone, and zoomed in on the doorway of Room 114.
The door opened. My father stepped out, wearing a shirt I had bought him for Father's Day. Behind him was a woman in her late twenties—a woman I instantly recognized as my mother's young assistant at her bakery, Chloe.
My hands shook so violently I could barely hit record. I caught them embracing, kissing, and whispering to each other before my father handed her an envelope stuffed with cash.
I backed out of the parking lot, my mind spinning. I didn't want to destroy my family, but I couldn't let my mother live a lie. I drove straight to my parents' house in the suburban hills.
"I went home," I whispered, opening my eyes to meet Cole's intense gaze. "I went to show my mother."
"Did you show her?" Cole asked.
"I... I don't think she was upstairs," I gasped, the memory shifting like fractured glass. "I went through the garage entrance. But my father... his truck pulled up right behind me. He followed me home. He knew I’d seen him."
"And then?"
"He confronted me in the garage," I shuddered, cold sweat breaking out across my forehead. "He demanded the phone. He said if I ruined his marriage and his reputation, he would make sure I never walked again. I refused. I tried to run for the door..."
My voice choked off as the blinding pain of the memory hit me. I could feel the impact of his heavy fists again, the terrible sound of my wrist snapping as I tried to shield my head, and the cold concrete floor rising up to meet me as everything went black.
"He beat you until he thought you were dead, Valeria," Detective Cole said softly, his jaw tight with controlled fury. "And when he couldn't unlock your phone because of your passcode, he left you bleeding on the oil-stained floor. Your mother found you two hours later."
"And she blamed me," I sobbed, tears spilling over the white bandages on my face. "She blamed me for getting hit."
"Teresa Santos is completely under his psychological control," Cole explained. "When officers questioned her, she swore under oath that you attacked your father in a fit of rage and that he was merely defending himself. She claimed you were mentally unstable and obsessed with ruining their family."
I stared at the ceiling, feeling an emptiness so deep it threatened to swallow me whole. The woman who gave me life preferred to brand me a delusional liar than accept that the man she worshipped was a monster.
"Where is the original file, Valeria?" Cole asked, leaning forward. "The copy on your phone was corrupted during the attack when he stomped on the screen. The forensic team can only recover fragments. If we want a judge to sign an arrest warrant for attempted murder without your mother's cooperation, we need the raw, unedited footage."
I looked down at my casted wrist, my mind racing through the hazy timeline. "Before I walked into the garage... I stopped at my desk in my apartment. I transferred the footage to an external flash drive. But where did I put it?"
Before I could answer, the door handle rattled.
The heavy oak door swung open, and two uniformed officers stepped into the room, followed by a man wearing an immaculate charcoal suit.
My father.
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Hector Santos stood at the foot of my bed, his dark hair neatly combed, his eyes filled with a terrifying, performative sadness. He was holding a large bouquet of white lilies.
"Valeria, my sweet girl," Hector purred, his voice trembling with practiced grief. "Thank God you're awake."
