Geovanna entered her apartment after turning on the hallway lights. With a lazy gesture, she took off her coat, hanging it on the hook by the door. Then she went
to the living room, unzipping her bag to get a cigarette. She lit it as soon as she sat down on the sofa. Her slender hands reached for an ashtray on the table. Instinctively, she searched for the remote control among the cushions adorning the chase lounge. She flicked the switch, and the spirit of the television entered her home, as it did for millions of viewers at that time of night, taking over her thoughts.
Despite the invasion of images on the screen, used precisely to distance her from her problems, Monroe couldn't help but remember Colmenares and the pragmatic advice he had given her, again that same afternoon. The lawyer, who had been going over the final details with her for the following Monday's auction, didn't abdicate his obligation: he warned her again that she was violating the law and that she could face problems if anyone else died during the clandestine investigation she had requested. It could even be the case of Gregory Evans.
She, however, paid no attention to his words, because she had complete confidence in her accomplice and in the way he was handling the matter. What's more, she bet five hundred euros, certain that in less than a week she would have the names of Jorge's killers on her desk. It was a premonition.
She tried to forget everything, following a news report
about prostitution and the pimp rings that were multiplying throughout Spain, thanks to poverty and immigration.
Then, taking advantage of a commercial break, she went to the bathroom and turned on the hot water in the shower. She stripped off her pants and blouse, then removed her underwear. With typical schoolgirl shyness, she opened the glass shower door to welcome the warm rain, which ran placidly over her skin, susceptible to the first contact.
She rubbed her sudsy body until, little by little, she was rid of the fatigue and stress that, as always, the events leading up to an auction provoked. She needed to forget everything, put her busy life on hold, and indulge in the routine of a few days of leisure, complete with mental laziness. She considered taking a vacation, as Nicolas had suggested the afternoon of the funeral.
She would go to Paris, visit her brothers and friends. She would spend an unforgettable week, far from the problems that weighed so heavily on her currently. It was her only escape and perhaps the best way to escape the anonymous presence that, at every moment, seemed to follow her like a relentless shadow. Soaking wet, she emerged from the shower, blindly searching for a towel
to dry herself. She then wrapped it around her head, keeping her hair tied back. She put on her robe and, as soon as she had slipped on her slippers, returned to the sofa. She was beginning to feel comfortable.
The program had ended, and now they were rebroadcasting a soccer match from Budapest. She changed the channel. Two attractive hosts were interviewing the ex-wife of a famous bullfighter, one from the glossy press and the other from the world of the dazzled. It promised to be so boring that, perhaps, with a bit of luck, she could even skip the sleeping pills.
She just had to listen to them tell how they sold their lives for money to fall asleep. As always.
To avoid that, she made herself a whiskey on the rocks and lit another cigarette. Then she put on her glasses to see closely and flipped through a magazine with strictly women's content. Recipes, cooking, fashion, horoscopes, love advice, and a myriad of useless topics flashed before her eyes, without her paying much attention. The truth was, she was tired and needed to sleep. She turned off the television and put down the magazine. She emptied the contents of the glass in one gulp, taking it to the kitchen to leave in the sink.
She returned to the bathroom to get her pills. She stood in front of the mirror, opening the door of the cabinet where she usually kept her sleeping pills. After setting aside the toothpaste and makeup remover lotion, she took two enormous pills from a crystal jar and popped them into her mouth. Without delay, she filled a glass with water and drank some, tilting her head back decisively, a gesture that helped her swallow the medicine. Concluding her nightly ritual, she closed the cabinet. That was when she noticed, behind her and reflected in the mirror, the figure of a young woman dressed entirely in black, staring at her.
— Good morning, love! — the intruder said, somewhat ironically.
She didn't have time to scream. Strong hands subdued her, holding her mouth and neck, as she felt the penetrating smell of chloroform burning her tongue and throat. The last thing she thought before passing out was that she would wake up in hell. Her return to consciousness, however, was so unpleasant that she almost wished she were dead.
First, she felt nausea and dizziness, due to the side effects of the chloroform, a malaise compounded by
A beginning headache, more intense in her temples. When her eyes adjusted to reality, she discovered she was tied to a chair, her hands behind her back and her legs tightly together. A handkerchief was over her mouth, held together by a thick piece of tape, covering much of her face. She could barely breathe. What's more, she was on the verge of vomiting and feared for her life if she started to vomit, because there was nowhere to expel the contents of her stomach. She would probably drown if she regurgitated.
She tried to control herself, to organize her erratic thoughts, and assess the situation. She was in the guest room of her luxurious apartment, facing the open window overlooking Madrid's Gran Vía. She made a tremendous effort to look both ways, to identify the young woman who had nearly scared her to death, but found no one in the room.
From where she was, she could see the lights of the buildings opposite and part of the wide avenue. She heard the murmur of people and the noise of cars struggling to escape the frequent traffic jams that plagued the city center. Then, she felt a deadly chill run down her spine: if she were tortured, no one would hear her desperate cries for help. She imagined the worst, certain that the assailant belonged to the group of murderers from the Widow's Sons institution. If that were the case, any plea would be futile. Nothing she said would save her from ending up with her tongue in the latrine. She imagined her navigating the sewer pipe.
She began to strain at the ropes, trying to free herself—she would do anything but sit and wait for them to sacrifice her—but she only managed to flay the skin around her wrists. She stopped what she was doing when, out of the corner of her eye, she saw the young woman enter the room. She suppressed her desire to escape for fear of reprisals.
The stranger stood before her, watching her silently. Then, she reached out to rip the duct tape from her face with a violent yank. Geovanna bit back a cry of pain beneath the scarf that bound her mouth, but felt better when the attacker deigned to remove it so she could breathe more easily.
Sephy placed her left foot on the hostage's thin thighs, pulling out a hunting knife from under her jeans. She approached the neck of the director of Hiperión, who was panting, overcome with nervousness.
— If you're thinking of screaming or cheating me, I'll stab you in the throat. — She didn't doubt the girl was serious. — The only thing I want from you is information. Then I'll leave, leaving you to live... Was that clear?
Geovanna nodded, unable to utter a single word because of the terror she felt at that moment.
— How many people know about the manuscript? — the young woman asked.
Monroe thought carefully before answering. If she lied and the girl knew the truth, she would cut her throat without a second thought. It was probably a trick question. She was certain
that she knew about the existence of the emails and that a coworker had also received a copy of the cipher. Otherwise, she wouldn't be here in her house. However, it was highly unlikely that she knew about the conversation she had had with Nicolas. She decided to risk it for his benefit.
— Only two... — she replied, unafraid of the consequences. — There are two of us, me and one of my employees, a friend of the person you murdered.
She burst into a rage as she remembered her lover's tragic death. Sephy barely noticed the arrogant tone of her response.
— I need this person's name and, of course, where they live. — Sephy brought her face closer to the director's, until her lips brushed her earlobe. The situation excited her so much that, without realizing it, her hand tightened its grip on the victim's neck. Geovanna had to respond to such a demand. If she delayed speaking, she could be in serious trouble.
— His name is Gregory Evans... and he lives in an apartment on Conde Romanones Street... — She trembled as she spoke. — I don't know the building number or the floor. Anyway, he's not in Madrid right now.
— Where is he? — the assailant asked, pulling her hair back forcefully to raise her neck.
The knife began to tear through her flesh, and a thin trickle of blood ran down Geovanna's throat.
The executive felt anguish overwhelm her voice, causing the words to come out haphazardly and strangled. She was so scared she could barely articulate her voice, but she forced herself to appease the madwoman. She needed time to think, to stay alive.
— He's in Murcia... — she whispered. — He'll spend a few days off with his family.
— That's a lie! — the assassin roared. — I want you to tell me the truth!" she demanded furiously. Monroe couldn't help but press against it and felt her sphincter opening, soaking her robe and thighs with urine. It was the first time since her late childhood that something like this had happened to her.
Her initial confusion gave way to terror
She realized then that she would have to be honest about what she knew about the manuscript. Otherwise, she would end up with her throat cut at the hands of a hysterical woman whose main interest seemed to be focused on her employee. Better yet, she thought, if she involved him in the matter too much, the woman would forget about her and follow in the detective's footsteps. If that were the case, she would still have a chance of getting out of this hellhole alive.
— Listen! — I don't know anything about what those two had in their hands — she lied deliberately, driven by fear. — Jorge and he were analyzing an encrypted medieval codex they bought in Toledo, but they never told me what it was. Greg is in Murcia looking for some kind of book near the cathedral. It's the only thing I know, I swear!
Then she began to cry, overcome by the tension she was under.
— And what's so special about this book?
Sephy stopped pressing her. He changed tactics, realizing she was willing to cooperate. She needed to convey confidence if she wanted to get any more information from her.
— According to what they told me, it explained how to travel to a distant country, where they would have to look for some columns... — Once Sephy had removed the knife slitting her throat, she could breathe easily and tell the young woman what she wanted to hear. — There, in some kind of cave or underground, The Widow's Sons hide a great secret... it seems to be the way to establish direct contact with God... — she murmured nervously. — I told them they were crazy, but they didn't even consider my opinion.
— And this Gregory... — She pronounced the name with a hint of disdain, but didn't finish her sentence. — Tell me... Does he rely on anyone else's help?
— Absolutely not — the apartment owner quickly denied. — Only the three of us knew what the manuscript said. And Jorge is dead.
— Do you know where he's staying in Murcia?
— He didn't tell me, but I have a phone number. — He gave it to me, in case I needed to contact him. I think it belongs to a friend of his, someone who lives in a nearby town.
— Where is it written?
— In my purse — she replied without hesitation.
Sephy went to get it. As soon as she reached it, she emptied its contents onto the bed. Besides a few coins and several ATM receipts, she found a Hiperión card, on the back of which was written a phone number and the name Gregory Evans. That was all she needed to know.
— Did you find it? — Geovanna asked anxiously, hoping she would leave him alone.
— Yes, here it is.
And she showed it to her, so she could confirm it was the real one.
— Exactly... now you can go! — She urged the intruder to leave the apartment. — You already have what you came for.
But the assassin placed the knife under her chin again. He smiled as if singing a hymn to cruelty. He was enjoying himself as he had rarely had the opportunity to do in his lethal career. That idiot still didn't know who he was talking to. He figured it was time to thank her for the information and, in the process, do his job. The moment had come to silence the voices.
Without giving her time to think, he raised the hilt of the knife until the sharp edge of the blade penetrated the inside of his victim's mouth, under the chin. Geovanna, her eyes wide with surprise, shook her body violently in a reflex action that lasted for several seconds. Blood flowed in torrents down her neck and mouth, running freely down her throat.
She tried to breathe, but the only thing that escaped her lips was an agonized gasp, clearly indicating her lack of air. Then, to alleviate her anguish, Sephy tore open the lower lip of her mouth so she could rip out her tongue. The horrified victim's pupils dilated in a desperate sign of pain, at the same time that his muscles gave way irremediably to the flaccidity of death.