“Don’t look,” I said. Stay on the street. Do you see a neighbor?
“The lady on the corner went out to take out the garbage, but she went back in.
“Ring bells if you have to,” I said. Stay with people. Don’t be left alone.
My car pulled into the housing estate and I saw Dylan from afar: he was on the sidewalk, the brush cutter off at his feet, his face colorless. Next to him, an older woman in a dressing gown – my neighbor, María del Carmen – was holding his arm as if he were her nephew. That gave me momentary relief.
I double-braked, got off, and Dylan came straight at me.
“Sir, I swear to you…” it was crying. A girl, I think. And then something fell. And then, silence.
“Have you called the police?”
“Yes. They come.
The house was quiet. Not a sound. The blinds in place. The front door closed. I stuck the key in the lock with clumsy hands. I was going to open… and I stopped. The operator was right. Entering was heroic stupidity.
“I’m not going in,” I said, more to convince myself than to inform.
Dylan swallowed.
“But… what if there’s someone down there?”
I looked at the kitchen window. The basement vent was just below. I approached slowly, crouching. I glued my ear together. At first I only heard my own breathing. Then, very slightly, a moan, like a thread.
I sat up suddenly.
“It’s there,” I whispered.
At that moment, two patrol cars arrived. The agents moved quickly, with that mix of routine and alertness that makes it clear that they have seen it all, but they never underestimate it. One of them, agent Ruiz, asked me if I was the owner. I nodded and gave them the key.
“Stay out, please,” he said.
I saw them come in. I heard footsteps. An interior door opens. Then a sharp blow, like something moving in the basement. Ruiz shouted:
“Police! If there’s anyone there, respond!
Silence tightened the air again.
Two endless minutes passed. Dylan stared at the ground. María del Carmen prayed in a low voice. I couldn’t take my eyes off my own door like it was the mouth of a tunnel.
Suddenly, an officer stepped out onto the porch and raised his hand.
“Evan!” Ruiz called me. There is a minor one. She is alive.
I felt my knees go limp.
“What… What is it doing in my basement?
Ruiz looked at me seriously.
“It’s hidden. And she is not alone. There are indications that someone else was here today. We are securing the scene.
I went into the hall alone, with permission, and saw the girl leave through the kitchen door escorted by an agent. He was fourteen or fifteen years old. Hair stuck to the face from sweat. The eyes were huge, red. He was trembling.
“Don’t send me back,” he said in a broken voice, looking at the officers, not me. Please. Don’t give me back.
Who really was that girl? What was he fleeing from… and who had used that house as a hiding place?
Part 2 …
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