Chapter 4 - The Scratch on the Neck
The afternoon funeral mass was held in the private chapel of the Armenta estate, a somber stone structure where generations of our ancestors lay buried beneath marble floor plaques.
The room was suffocatingly hot, thick with the cloying scent of burning incense and thousands of white lilies—the very flowers I had dropped on the foyer floor days ago. Rows of black wooden pews were filled with local politicians, bribed vineyard managers, and hypocritical high-society acquaintances whispering behind black lace fans.
At the front of the chapel rested the closed mahogany casket.
My mother sat in the front pew, her posture rigid, pretending to dab her dry eyes with a lace handkerchief. Beside her stood Rodrigo, wearing dark sunglasses despite the indoor gloom, shifting nervously from foot to foot.
I sat alone in the back pew, my back straight, my dark wool coat buttoned to the chin. I didn't cry. I didn't bow my head. I stared straight at the back of Rodrigo’s head, watching the way his shoulders twitched every time the priest chanted a prayer for the departed soul.
When the service concluded, guests queued up to offer their condolences. They approached me with lowered eyes, murmuring hollow clichés about God’s plan and tragic losses. I answered each of them with a polite, chilling nod that made them step back faster than they approached.
Finally, my mother and brother walked back toward my pew.
“Julián,” Teresa said, her voice dripping with artificial maternal warmth as she placed a gloved hand on my arm. “You’ve barely spoken a word all morning. You must let grief out, son. Holding it inside will poison you.”
I looked down at her gloved hand until she slowly withdrew it, uncomfortable under my gaze.
“I’m not holding anything in, Mother,” I replied softly. “I’m simply waiting.”
“Waiting for what?” Rodrigo snapped, stepping forward, his jaw tight. He adjusted his dark glasses, though the indoor lighting was dim. “The funeral is over. The burial is set for the family crypt in an hour. Stop acting like a martyr and accept that accidents happen.”
I stood up slowly, towering over my brother by three inches. I didn't rush. I took my time, stepping out from the pew until I was standing so close to Rodrigo that I could smell the expensive scotch mixed with the metallic scent of sweat on his skin.
“Accidents, Rodrigo?” I murmured, my voice smooth as silk. “Is that what you call a torn jacket button?”
Rodrigo flinched. His hand instinctively flew up toward his neck, brushing against the strip of medical tape covering the scratch just below his jawline.
“What are you talking about?” he forced out, his voice pitching slightly higher than normal.
“Nothing,” I smiled coldly, reaching out with agonizing slowness to brush a speck of lint off the lapel of his navy-blue jacket—right where a missing button had left a frayed thread dangling loose. “Just discussing tailoring. Some clothes are so poorly made that when someone fights back, the threads just give way under pressure.”
Rodrigo’s face turned the color of curdled milk. He stepped back, nearly tripping over the edge of the stone pew.
“You’re out of your mind,” Rodrigo snarled, his voice shaking with sudden panic. “Mother, look at him! He’s losing his grip on reality! He needs to be sedated!”
Teresa stepped between us, her eyes flashing with cold fury. She was a master manipulator, but for the first time, I saw genuine cracks in her armor. She realized that I wasn't the grieving, naive son she could easily dismiss anymore.
“Enough,” Teresa commanded, her voice dropping an octave into pure ice. “Both of you. Put aside your childish posturing. We have guests watching.”
“Let them watch,” I said, turning my gaze to fixate directly on my mother. “Let them see how a family buries its secrets. But before we lower that casket into the ground, Mother... I want the coroner’s official report. The real one. Not the one Dr. Alarcón forged.”
Teresa’s lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line.
“The report is filed with the local authorities, Julián. It is closed.”
“Not anymore,” I whispered, pulling a folded legal document from my coat pocket and letting it snap open in front of her face. The official seal of the Federal District Attorney’s Office gleamed in the dim chapel light. “Thanks to Camila’s pre-death deposition and my legal standing as sole administrator of her estate, a federal judge signed an injunction twenty minutes ago. The burial is halted. The casket is staying right here until the state forensics team arrives for a full, independent autopsy.”
May you like
The chapel went dead silent.
Rodrigo let out a choked sound of disbelief. My mother’s eyes widened in horror, the mask of composed matriarch finally shattering entirely, revealing the panicked, cornered criminal underneath.
