“Do you have relatives with similar last names?” Santiago asked.
“No. My family was small. My mother died young, my father abandoned us. I only had my older sister, Carmen. But she died five years ago in an accident on the coast. Or at least that’s what my father told me before he disappeared. I never saw the body, just received her ashes.”
Santiago stood up, his eyes shining with sudden realization.
“Valentina, think about it. Ricardo is a con artist. Your father lied to you before. What if Carmen didn’t die? What if ‘Moralis’ is a typo for ‘Morales’ or an alias?”
It sounded insane, but in the context of her life, insanity was the only logic left. The next day, Santiago moved heaven and earth, using private contacts to track hospital records on the coast. And there, in a small hospital in Cartagena, they found it: Carmen Moralis had given birth to twin girls three weeks earlier.
“She’s alive,” Valentina sobbed, covering her mouth. “My sister is alive—and these are my nieces.”
They wasted no time. At dawn, they traveled to Cartagena. The walled city welcomed them with its humid, vibrant heat. Santiago managed to locate the address listed on a recent employment record—Carmen was working as a nurse under that false surname.
“Carmen!”
