The Past Isn't Gone

Chapter 8: Digging the Grave Again

The hallway outside Elise’s office was empty. Quiet. Too quiet.

Luis leaned against the wall, arms crossed, waiting.

Ethan arrived a minute later, dressed in black, moving like a shadow. He didn’t speak—not yet. Just met Luis’s eyes with a silent question.

Luis gave a nod. “We dig.”

They didn’t tell Elise. Not yet. Not until they were sure.

In the security room, Ethan keyed in the private access code that bypassed the estate’s monitoring logs. No record of what they were about to do would remain.

Luis pulled up the encrypted file labeled "Montoya – Final Documentation."

Photos. Autopsy reports. Death certificate.

Ethan frowned as he scanned the contents. “This all looks clean.”

“Too clean,” Luis muttered.

He highlighted the signature on the death certificate. “Look at this. The attending physician was someone Elise never met. And this hospital—” he opened a browser and typed fast, “—it burned down three weeks after Montoya’s death.”

Ethan’s eyes narrowed. “Convenient.”

Luis clicked through the metadata. “No DNA confirmation. No fingerprints matched. Only IDed through personal effects—a ring.”

“A ring Elise gave him,” Ethan said, voice low.

Luis nodded grimly. “Something anyone could plant.”

They sat in silence for a moment.

Then Ethan spoke, slower now. “You think someone staged his death?”

Luis’s voice was tight. “I think someone wanted Elise to believe he was gone.”

Ethan stared at the monitor. “And you think he’s the one behind all this.”

Luis didn’t answer.

He didn’t have to.

Ethan leaned forward, typing quickly. “We’ll need access to the morgue records. And the security feed from the hospital—if it still exists.”

“It doesn’t,” Luis said. “The servers were wiped in the fire. But I know someone in the insurance investigation firm who looked into it.”

Ethan raised a brow. “You never mentioned that.”

“I didn’t think it mattered until now.” Luis grabbed his coat. “We leave in an hour.”

Ethan stood. “What do we tell Elise?”

Luis’s jaw tightened.

“Nothing.”

“She’ll want to know,” Ethan said.

“And she will,” Luis replied. “But not until we’re sure. I won’t drag her through hell again if it’s just a ghost.”

Ethan stared at him for a beat. “You care about her that much?”

Luis looked away. “She saved me once. She just doesn’t remember.”

Ethan didn’t press.

Because he understood.

They both owed Elise Cruz.

Now they were about to find out if the devil she buried was clawing his way back.

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A rusted gate creaked open as Ethan pushed it aside, revealing a forgotten neighborhood on the outskirts of Taguig. The sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the crumbling pavement.

Luis checked the address again. “This is it. Unit 4B.”

The building was old but not abandoned. Clotheslines sagged from windows. Somewhere above, a radio played a slow kundiman.

Ethan led the way up narrow stairs until they reached the door. He knocked once—firm, deliberate.

After a pause, the door opened a c***k. A woman peered out—late 50s, sharp eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. She didn’t look surprised to see them.

“Luis Santiago,” she said. “Took you long enough.”

Ethan tensed.

“You remember me, Ms. Salazar,” Luis said evenly.

“Hard to forget a man who asks about the dead.” She opened the door wider. “Come in.”

Inside, the apartment was neat but sparse. A shrine to the Virgin Mary flickered in the corner. Old photographs lined the shelf—one of them unmistakably Adrian Montoya, younger, smiling, arm around Ms. Salazar’s shoulder.

“You were close to him,” Ethan said.

“I was his godmother,” she replied. “And his secret keeper.”

Luis didn’t waste time. “You told me you had doubts about his death.”

Ms. Salazar lit a cigarette, eyes narrowing behind the smoke. “I was there the week before the funeral. They wouldn’t let me see the body.”

Ethan frowned. “Why not?”

“They said it was too damaged. That he was burned in the explosion.”

Luis leaned forward. “Do you believe he’s alive?”

A pause.

Then she reached into a drawer and pulled out a wrinkled photograph. She handed it to Luis.

It was grainy. Taken from a distance. But the man in the photo walking through a street in Bacolod looked exactly like Adrian.

“This was taken six months after he died,” she said. “By someone who owed me a favor. He didn’t know I’d be asking about Adrian Montoya.”

Ethan stared at the photo. “Could be a lookalike.”

“Maybe,” she said. “But look at his hand.”

Luis examined the image closer. On the man’s left hand was a ring. Elise’s ring. Unique, custom-made, one of a kind.

Luis’s throat went dry.

“He’s not dead,” Ms. Salazar whispered. “And if he’s back…” Her voice turned cold. “Then God help Elise Cruz.”