CHAPTER 3: THE WOMAN WHO ASKED TOO MANY QUESTIONS
1305 Words
CAMILA'S POV
[PRESENT]
The name had been staring at me for three days.
ORTEGA CRUZ.
Block letters—Center of the board. A red pen is marked on it. Ghost donors, unknown companies, and sick children whose hospitals had no record of receiving the money raised in their names. For almost two minutes, I kept looking at the name.
The apartment was quieter than usual. Samuel had been gone one day, and already the rooms felt too large. I switched the television on for company two hours ago, not minding its existence.
My phone buzzed on the desk.
Unknown number.
I looked at it for a moment. Then I answered.
"Miss Romero." Not a source. The voice was easy. Practiced. "I was hoping we could..."
I ended the call. Blocked the number before I set it down.
Third one this week.
I left my hand flat on the screen for a moment.
[TWO MONTHS AGO]
A birthday party at Mara Clair's house. The music was too loud.
He walked across the room where I was sitting, as he'd already waited for me.
"You look like someone worth talking to."
I had laughed before I meant to. "Is that your opening?"
"Is it working?"
He smiled, lifting the glass. He never drank from it. He didn't even look toward the door. His eyes stayed on me.
"Daniel," he said.
"Camila."
"Cami..." He leaned closer. "Love, or should I…"
I gave him a look.
"Don't."
He asked for my number when the music changed. I gave it to him without thinking twice.
I had believed lots of things that night.
[THREE DAYS AGO]
Tophine's graduation party was on a Friday.
She had called me three times to confirm I was coming, and I had promised each time and meant it. I wore the green dress Samuel liked. I arrived at seven. By seven-thirty, I was already standing near the drinks table with a glass I was barely touching, scanning the room for Tophine's face.
I found Daniel's instead.
He was already looking at me. Sitting near the far wall, one ankle crossed over his knee, relaxed, like he had been expecting me. He curled his fingers towards me, signaling for me to come closer.
I looked away.
He crossed the room towards me.
“Funny how fate keeps bringing us back together, Cami love.” He sat in the empty chair beside me without asking.
“You blocked my number. Changed your line. And yet here we are.”
I kept my eyes on the room. "I am here for my friend."
"Of course." I heard the amusement in his voice. "So am I."
I stood. Tophine was near the dance floor, and I moved close to her, leaving him behind. He did not follow. But when I glanced back from across the room, his eyes were still on me.
They followed me through the dancing, the conversations, almost everything.
I told myself I was imagining it.
The corridor smelled of freshly baked cake from the kitchen. The party noise faded as the door swung shut behind me. The music was still playing, but I could barely hear it.
Then a hand closed around my arm from behind and pulled me into the dark space beside the door.
"Wait..."
His face was close. Too close. His hand gripped my wrist, and his other hand found my waist. I could smell his cologne and the alcohol on his breath.
“What the hell are you trying to do?”
I pushed, but he was stronger. Then his mouth…
I bit down.
He pulled back. One second. Enough.
I slapped him so hard my palm burned.
He stood very still. Something moved across his face. It wasn't pain.
I walked back into the hall. My hands were not steady. I passed a man holding a glass of red wine and took it from his hand without stopping, explaining, or looking at his face. I turned.
Daniel was three steps behind me.
I threw the drink.
It hit his white shirt and spread. He looked down. The whole room went quiet.
"Shameful man," I said.
I set the glass on the nearest table, found Tophine in the crowd, gave her an apologetic look, and walked out into the night air.
[LATER THAT NIGHT.]
I called Samuel from the car. My hands shook when I dialed his name.
He picked up on the second ring. "Hey. How is the..."
"Someone grabbed me at the party."
Silence. Then his voice: "Who?"
"Daniel. The one I told you about. He followed me into the corridor and..."
"Are you hurt?"
"No. I slapped him. And then I poured someone's drink on his white shirt in front of everyone."
Another silence. Then a sound I wasn’t expecting. Samuel laughed. Low at first, then fully.
"You poured..." He paused. Started again. "Camila."
"I know."
"I wish I was there." His voice dropped. “To knock some sense into that head of his, so he won’t see you again.”
"Samuel."
"I cannot wait for these two weeks to be over." A pause. "Are you okay? Honestly."
"Honestly?" I looked at the empty street outside. "Yes."
"I trust you." His voice steadied. "I know what you can and can’t do." A beat. "Clearly."
I laughed. It surprised me how quickly it came.
"Go home," he said. "Lock the door. Do not open it for anyone tonight."
"I am already in the car." I pulled the door shut, the seat belt clicking across my chest.
"Good." He took a breath. "I can never doubt you, Camila."
The line went quiet, then ended. I sat with the phone in both hands, his voice still somewhere in the car with me.
Then I drove home.
[PRESENT.]
The warning call came while I was at the desk, pen moving.
A number I had never seen.
I answered on the third ring.
“Camila Romero. I know you very well.”
"Be very, very careful." The line went still for a very long time. "About the man you are investigating."
My pen stopped.
"Who is this?"
The line breathed.
"How do you know what I am?"
"Be careful, Miss Romero." The voice stayed calm. "This man does not leave loose ends."
The call ended.
I sat with the phone against my ear long after the line went dead. Then I looked up. ORTEGA CRUZ in block letters at the center of the board.
I set the phone on the desk.
Stood. Crossed to the window. The street below was empty, save for a parked car and a streetlight throwing yellow across wet pavement. Nothing moved.
Then the television behind me shifted the scene. Blue light swept across the curtain. A shadow moved in the glass.
I stood very still.
Just the television. Just light on the curtain.
I stepped back. Sat down at the desk in exactly the position I had been in before. Back to the window. Board in front of me. Files on the floor. Pen in hand.
My hand was not quite steady.
But it touched the page.
Somewhere below the window, in the street, I had looked and seen nothing; the night held whatever it was holding.
I kept writing.
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