Maristela turned, leaned against the wooden door, looking at the situation calmly.
The body was still there. The blood still glistened wet. The piece of trachea on his chest made everything worse.
She looked at the scene with new eyes. The eyes of what the police would look for.
Windows intact. Door closed. Table tipped over — struggle, but no breaking in. Smell of wine. Bite on the neck. Exposed larynx. Drowned in his own blood.
A memory surfaced. She was a child, before the convent. A man taught her how to play detective. The game was finding clues. She always won.
Maristela blinked. The blood-stained office came back into focus.
"That pig deserved it."
'Deserved it,' she agreed in thought.
'But left a mess for you to clean. Can't hide it. Can't pretend it was a robbery. But you can buy time.'
She worked fast.
She rummaged through the papers on the table — letters, receipts, notes. Nothing useful. In the drawers, more of the same: convent accounting, correspondence with the diocese.
In the bottom drawer, an object gleamed.
Pocket watch. Silver. Old. Still working.
He doesn't need this anymore.
She checked the time: 01:26. Put it in her pocket. It was hers.
She continued. On her way out, she stepped on the Persian rug near the fireplace.
Her foot sank — and something creaked. Not the floor. Something hollow.
She stopped. The rug was misaligned. She pulled it with her foot. The fabric slid, revealing the dark floor.
A thin line outlined a board. A crack.
A safe.
The Orphan's voice came quickly: 'What does a priest need a hidden safe for?'
Maristela knelt. She dug her nails into the crack. The board gave but didn't come out. It had a lock.
She needed the key.
She searched the drawers. Nothing. The bookshelf. Nothing. The cassock pockets. Nothing.
She sat in Dan's chair. The leather was still warm. She wanted to leave, but she stayed.
She looked at the room. Think. Any clue.
Her eyes scanned the mess. The tilted bookshelf. The scattered books.
A crooked book on the shelf. Who stores a book crooked?
She stood up. The book was old. Dark leather cover. Engraved title: "De Civitate Dei – Aurelius Augustinus."
She pulled. The book didn't come alone. Something held it. For a second, she thought she was wrong. Then she heard the click.
Inside, there were no pages. The pages had been carved out. And at the bottom of the hollow, a key.
Maristela held the key. Simple, made of iron.
She stood up. Inserted the key into the board's lock.
Turned. Click.
The board opened.
The safe was shallow. Lined with stained red velvet. Inside, leather folders, documents with seals, property deeds.
And a luxury Bible. White leather cover, pages with gold edges. The pages gleamed — real gold leaf.
Rich. The pig was rich.
At the bottom, a small wooden box. She opened it.
Coins. Seven gold coins.
They weren't like ordinary coins. They were older. Stranger.
She picked one up. Turned it in her hand.
The symbol was disturbing. A person with open arms — but the head was a circle, a perfect loop. The circle where the face should be.
A person with open arms. With a loop in place of the head.
'Not Catholic. It's pagan.'
She kept the coins. They would serve to sell. To eat. To survive.
There was more. An envelope caught her attention. Handwritten: "Convent of Our Lady of Conception. 1920. Content: Money for monthly sustenance. Amount: 1,000,000 Réis. Fr. Dan Carlo."
Signed: D.R.
Who was D.R.? Why did he lie? This was enough money to buy a farm.
She could live well for years, if she didn't mind condemning all the nuns and the eighteen novices.
She opened the envelope. The notes were there. Real money. For food, for coal, so the girls wouldn't be cold.
Enough to buy food for a year, maybe two. Enough so the girls wouldn't go hungry.
Her hand trembled. With this, she could buy a house. Never need anyone again.
'Take it.' The Orphan whispered.
She hesitated.
'Take it. You need it more than they do.'
"They need it more than I do."
'They'll have the convent. You'll have the street. Take it.'
Her hand reached out, stopped in the air. On the other side of the wall, eighteen girls slept. She closed her eyes and took it. They would understand.
Finally, important papers.
A thin folder, with a single paper. A list. D.R.'s list.
"Expansion Targets." It had a black star, each point a circle with smaller stars inside.
Expansion targets? What syndicate?
Names. Few. Handwritten. Some crossed out.
In total, eight uncrossed names.
Maristela read. She didn't recognize any.
Until the last one.
It was a simple name.
Isabela Cardoso.
And next to it, engraved in ink, a symbol.
The same symbol as her brooch.
The stylized "P."
Maristela's heart stopped.
"What?"
'The brooch. The same symbol.'
She pulled the brooch from her clothes. Compared. It was identical.
Isabela. Who was Isabela? What did she have to do with her? With the priest?
The Orphan's voice came calmly: 'Someone who wants to find you.'
There was more. At the bottom of the folder, an envelope. Sealed. Addressed to Father Dan, with firm, elegant handwriting.
The letter had already been opened.
She pulled it out. Read.
"I arrive in a week. I want the girl. Protect her with your life. After that, you and your convent will be free and you can become one of us. Do not disappoint me – or I will burn every soul in that convent until only ash remains.
— D.R."
The paper trembled.
The girl. Which girl? Her?
"Why would he protect me?" her voice came out in a whisper.
'And he didn't protect.' The Orphan was cold. 'The letter arrived today. He read it today. And today he called you to his room. Not to protect.'
Maristela didn't let the voice finish.
She kept the letter. Kept the coins. Kept the list.
She closed the safe. Put the board back. Stretched the rug.
She put Dante's book back on the shelf. Crooked. Whoever looked would find it.
Maristela didn't know. Didn't want to know. She wanted to get out of there.
But the question remained. And the letter. And the initials. D.R. Isabela Cardoso. The same symbol as the brooch.
She left. The dark corridor swallowed her.
Outside, the night waited.
She returned to the dormitory. The girls who were awake saw her enter. Saw the envelope. Saw the dried blood on her fingers.
No one said anything.
She went to the corner. Lifted the false board — the "well." The secret hiding spot.
She put the money inside. Left 900,000 réis. The remaining 100,000 would cover a month of food and shelter.
She also put the gold Bible inside. It would be worth good money for them.
She wrote a note: "Don't look for me. The money is yours. The Bible too. Forgive me."
Folded it. Closed the board.
When she turned around, Clara was in the doorway.
9 years old. Thin. Big, scared eyes. The girl Maristela saw as a little sister.
"Mari?" her voice was a thread.
Maristela went to her. Knelt.
"You should be sleeping."
"I couldn't." Clara bit her lip. "Did he… did he touch you?"
Maristela didn't answer.
"He touched me." The girl's voice broke. "I don't like it, Mari. I don't want it."
Maristela pulled the girl into a hug.
"No," she said, her voice firm. "He won't touch anyone ever again."
She led Clara back to bed. Tucked the blanket. Stroked her hair.
"Tell me a story," Clara asked. "The one about the little rat."
Maristela smiled. Sad.
"Once upon a time, there was a mischievous little rat who played hide-and-seek with an angel. She knew she couldn't be found. If she was, she would lose all her gold coins."
"Gold coins?" Clara murmured, her eyes closing.
"Each coin bought one day on earth. She wanted to live every day, so she couldn't lose any."
"One day, the evil toad said that if the little rat didn't go with him to the dungeon, he would take the smaller rats. So she went. To protect the smaller ones."
"She went?"
"She went. And when she arrived, she waited for the toad to croak and shoved a stick into his eye. He screamed and fell. The toad never hurt anyone again."
Clara opened her eyes.
"Wow. That little rat is mean."
"She is."
'Good thing you're here with me, Mari. I love you.'
Maristela swallowed the lump.
"I love you too, you ugly little rat. Now go to sleep."
"What about you? Aren't you coming to sleep?"
Maristela was silent for a moment.
"No, sweetheart. I need to hide the toad's body first."
Clara frowned, sleepy.
"The bad toad from the story, Mari?"
Maristela kissed the girl's forehead.
"Yes."
Clara squeezed her eyes shut — and for a second, something adult gleamed in them.
"Good luck, Mari," she whispered. Then she turned to the side and slept or pretended to sleep.
Maristela stood up. She looked at the dormitory. At the eighteen beds. At Clara, who was already breathing deeply, eyes closed.
"I love you," she whispered.
Maristela left, leaving behind everything she wanted to protect.