Maurice cried like a child, a wrenching cry releasing years of accumulated guilt and poorly processed grief. He realized his instinct had always been right, that the unease in his chest was his mother’s voice calling from captivity.
“Where is she now? Is she still alive?” he asked with a choked voice, fearing it was too late.
“I don’t know for sure, sir. They took her to a place called St. Lucia in the outskirts. But if God is just, she’s still resisting because she’s a woman of steel,” replied Rose, offering her hand to help him up.
In that moment, Maurice stopped being the defeated and manipulable man he had been for the last decade. A cold and calculated fury took over him. It wasn’t just anger; it was a son’s determination who had failed and had one last chance to redeem himself.
“We’re going to find her, Rose, and I swear on my life that those who did this will pay for every tear she shed,” sentenced Maurice, clutching the rosary in his fist until his knuckles turned white.
It was then Rose brought the attic painting and placed it before him.
“Look at her, sir. She’s the same woman I saw, the same gaze. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise ever again.”
Maurice caressed his mother’s painted face, renewing the protection promise he had broken years ago. There were no more doubts, only a clear and urgent mission. The front door opened at that instant, and Karen’s heels echoed in the foyer. She was returning from her party, drunk on champagne and arrogance, unaware she was entering the wolf’s mouth. Maurice signaled Rose to stay by his side and turn toward the entrance, waiting for his wife with an expression that would make the devil himself tremble. The confrontation was imminent.
Karen entered the living room humming a tune, took off her fur coat, and stopped short seeing Maurice standing with the rosary in hand and the employee beside him with a defiant look. The silence that followed was dense, electric.
“What are you doing up? And what is this woman doing here at this hour?” asked Karen, sensing something was terribly wrong.
Maurice didn’t respond immediately, just stepped toward her, showing the rosary.
“Hello, Karen. Mom sends greetings from the hell you condemned her to,” said Maurice, with a voice so icy that Karen felt her blood freeze in her veins.
Karen’s face went from confusion to absolute terror in seconds. She tried to laugh, tried to play the indignation card, but Maurice’s gaze disarmed her completely.
“What are you talking about? You’re drunk, Maurice. You’re saying nonsense,” she babbled, backing toward the door, seeking an instinctive escape route.
“No, Karen. For the first time in years I’m completely sober and awake,” he replied, advancing implacably. “I know about the clinic. I know about the empty casket. I know you paid Villalobos to kidnap my mother. Rose has told me everything.”
Karen looked at Rose with pure and visceral hate.
“That servant is lying! She’s a thief. She must want money,” she screamed, losing the elegant composure that always characterized her.
“The only thief here is you, who stole my mother from me and stole my life!” exploded Maurice, throwing a glass against the wall that shattered, scaring Karen until she fell into an armchair. “Confess, where is she? If you tell me now, maybe I’ll have mercy and not turn you into the police immediately.”
Cornered and seeing her web of lies destroyed, Karen broke. She began crying, but not tears of remorse, but of frustration and self-pity.
“I did it for us! She hated us, Maurice, and always meddled in everything. She wouldn’t let me breathe. She wanted to turn you against me,” she screamed hysterically, revealing her true selfish nature. “I just wanted her gone, to leave us in peace. The doctor said it would be easy, that she’d be well cared for.”
Her confession was the final proof Maurice needed, though hearing it from her lips hurt more than any physical wound.
“Well cared for? You threw her in a hole to rot while you spent her money on dresses and parties,” said Maurice with disgust, looking at her like an unrecognizable monster. “Tell me, where is St. Lucia? Tell me now,” he demanded, grabbing her shoulders and shaking her.
Karen, trembling and sobbing, gave the approximate address, a lost place in the countryside that Villalobos had mentioned once. Maurice released her with repulsion, as if touching her dirtied his hands.
“Go to your room and don’t come out. Tomorrow you’ll leave this house forever, and if you try to flee before the police arrive, I’ll hunt you down to the ends of the earth,” warned Maurice.
Karen ran upstairs, locking herself in her room, knowing her reign was over and her luxurious life had vanished. Maurice didn’t waste time. He called a trusted private detective, Richard Salgado, and asked him to assemble a team to go to St. Lucia that same night. He wouldn’t trust the local police, who might be bought by Villalobos. He had to do this himself. Rose prepared coffee and some food for the trip, showing admirable strength.
“I’m going with you, sir. She’ll need a friendly face when we find her,” she said, and Maurice nodded gratefully, recognizing that without this woman, his mother would still be lost.
They left in the early morning under the ceaseless rain, driving at full speed on muddy back roads, guided by hope and desperation. In the car, Maurice called Villalobos, waking him.
“I know everything, Ernest. I’m going for my mother. If you’ve touched a hair on her head, pray, because not even God will save you from me.”
He hung up before the doctor could respond, leaving him terrified. They arrived at St. Lucia residence at dawn. It was a grim place, a fortified old house with high walls and barking dogs in the yard. Detective Salgado and his men forced the entry, surprising the sleepy guards who didn’t expect an armed incursion.
Maurice ran in, shouting his mother’s name, opening doors to rooms where elders lived in deplorable conditions, dirty and hungry. The place’s reality was worse than imagined; it was a concentration camp for unwanted elders. Finally, in a room on the top floor, he found a padlocked door. The detective kicked it open.
There, sitting in an old chair by the window, wrapped in ragged blankets, was Mrs. Mary. She turned slowly at the noise. Her eyes were tired and her body frail, but upon seeing Maurice, a light ignited in her gaze.
“Maurice, is it you, my son?” she asked with a trembling voice, fearing she was dreaming.
Maurice fell to his knees before her, hugging her legs, crying uncontrollably.
“It’s me, mum. I came for you. Forgive me for taking so long. Forgive me.”
Mary stroked his head with her bony hands, smiling with infinite peace.
“I knew you’d come, my boy. I never lost faith. Love always finds the way back.”
Rose entered behind, crying too, and Mary extended her hand.
“Thank you, dear. Thank you for keeping your promise.”
In that embrace of three, the iron curtain that had separated them collapsed forever. The return to the Belmont Mansion was an almost mystical event. The sun rose just as the car crossed the main gate, illuminating the façade as if the house itself celebrated its rightful owner’s return. Karen had fled during the night, taking only what fit in a suitcase, and leaving a note full of pathetic excuses that Maurice tore without reading.