“What are you saying, Dolores?”
Her eyes locked onto mine with a sharpness that unsettled me.
“They have no idea who I really am,” she murmured, almost proudly. “But you’re about to find out.”
A chill ran down my spine. Since I married Javier, the official version about her had always been simple: an old woman with dementia living off a tiny pension, a burden. But that look didn’t belong to a lost mind.
“In the dresser… bottom drawer…” Each word seemed to cost her breath. “The green envelope. Take it. It’s for you.”
I glanced at the old wooden dresser across from the bed. Its varnish was chipped, a crucifix hanging above it. I hesitated.
“First I’m calling an ambulance, Dolores. You’re very sick.”
Her fingers tightened around my wrist with surprising strength.
“First… the envelope,” she insisted. “Then do whatever you want.”
I swallowed, stood up, and opened the bottom drawer. It was full of neatly folded sheets. At the very back, almost pressed against the wood, I saw a dark green envelope with no sender. My name was written across it in firm letters:
“LUCÍA MARTÍN GARCÍA.”
