Chapter 8 - The Seventeenth Night Revisited
The moonlight cut a sharp, silver blade across the mattress, illuminating Esteban’s face. The polite, gentle mask he wore for the world had vanished entirely, replaced by a cold, vacant expression that belonged to a hunter staring down his prey.
In his right hand, he held a medical syringe, the needle glinting wickedly in the dark.
He leaned over the center of the bed, bringing his face inches from Lucía’s.
“You should have stayed in the south, little bird,” Esteban whispered, his voice smooth, venomous, and dripping with malicious satisfaction. “You almost ruined everything. Just like your foolish predecessor.”
Beside me, my heart hammered like a jackhammer against my ribs. I wanted to scream, I wanted to lunge, but I forced my muscles to remain completely paralyzed, playing my part in the trap.
Beneath the heavy duvet, Lucía’s fingers pressed firmly against the tiny record button of the digital audio device resting against her chest. Every word he spoke was being captured in crystal-clear definition.
“You think you can protect her?” Esteban continued, chuckling softly in the dark as he raised the syringe toward Lucía’s arm. “Clara is next. And then your precious Tomás will inherit a grieving widower’s estate, just before he suffers his own ‘tragic accident.’ It’s so easy, Lucía. It’s always been so easy.”
He pressed the tip of the needle against the fabric of her sleeve.
“Time to put you back to sleep permanently.”
“Not so fast, Esteban.”
My voice cut through the dark room like a gunshot.
I sat bolt upright, ripping the blanket away. At the exact same second, Lucía rolled to the side, pressing a small bedside lamp switch.
Click.
The lamp flared to life, flooding the bedroom with blinding, golden light.
Esteban froze, the syringe still clutched in his hand, blinking against the sudden brightness. He whipped his head toward me, his eyes widening in sudden, unadulterated shock.
“Clara… you’re awake?” he stammered, his facade finally cracking.
“She was never asleep,” a new, deeper voice echoed from the doorway.
The bedroom door, which had been left slightly ajar, swung completely open.
Standing in the threshold was Tomás.
The color had drained entirely from my brother’s face. He was staring at his older brother, trembling from head to toe, holding his own phone in his hand—its screen glowing, displaying the live audio waveform transmitting directly from the recorder Lucía had hidden under the covers.
Tomás had heard every single word.
The confession. The threats. The admission of murder.
Esteban slowly lowered the syringe, his face twisting from shock into a dark, feral rage. He looked at Tomás, then at Lucía, and finally back at me.
“You set me up,” Esteban whispered, his voice trembling with venom.
“You killed your first wife, Esteban,” Tomás choked out, his voice breaking as tears spilled over his cheeks. He took a shaky step into the room, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles were bloodless. “You tried to kill my wife… and you were going to murder Clara.”
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Esteban let out a low, dark laugh—a sound so chilling it made my blood run cold. He didn't deny it anymore. The mask was completely gone.
“She was weak, Tomás,” Esteban sneered, stepping away from the bed and reaching behind his back toward the waistband of his trousers. “Just like you.”
