Chapter 3 - The Room in Northside
The drive to Northside took twenty-five agonizing minutes. Rain had begun to slick the asphalt of Mexico City, reflecting the harsh neon signs of cheap motels, auto repair shops, and shuttered warehouses.
Victor sat in the back of the SUV with Annie wrapped in his wool overcoat. He had tried to give her fresh food from his briefcase—artisan chocolates and bottled mineral water—but she had insisted on saving them for her mother.
"She likes chocolate," Annie whispered, her little fingers tracing the silver crest on Victor’s coat sleeve. "She used to tell me stories about how you brought her hot chocolate every morning when it snowed."
Victor closed his eyes, a sharp, physical pain tearing through his heart. He remembered those mornings in their first small apartment before the Williams estate was built. He remembered Catherine’s soft laugh, her warm hands, and the way she had looked at him as if he were the only man in the world. He had spent three years hating her image, convinced she had traded their love for a quick exit with a wealthy lover—a lie systematically manufactured by his own mother.
The SUV pulled to a halt outside a dilapidated four-story brick building. Damp laundry hung from rusty iron fire escapes, and the front entrance was guarded by a cracked security door patched with duct tape.
"Is this it?" Victor asked, his stomach turning.
"Fourth floor," Annie said softly. "Room 4B. The elevator doesn't work, so we have to walk fast before the big dog on the second floor barks."
Victor picked Annie up in his arms, refusing to let her feet touch the filthy, grease-stained carpet of the stairwell. As they climbed, the smell of damp plaster, cheap frying oil, and sewage grew thicker. Victor, a man whose corporate offices spanned fifty floors of polished marble and glass, felt an overwhelming sense of shame with every step he took.
At Room 4B, Annie tapped three times on the peeling wooden door—a secret code, Victor realized, meant to reassure her mother that she wasn't a landlord or a bill collector.
A weak, raspy voice called out from inside. "Annie? Sweetheart, is that you? I told you not to go outside in the cold..."
Victor pushed the door open.
The room was no larger than a standard walk-in closet in Victor’s estate. A single metal frame bed sat in the corner, covered by two worn blankets and a faded trench coat. A small electric space heater buzzed weakly in the corner, clicking uselessly as cold air seeped through the cracked window pane.
On the bed lay Catherine.
Her once-lustrous chestnut hair was dull and cropped short. Her cheekbones protruded sharply against pale, translucent skin, and her hands were swollen at the joints—the unmistakable signs of her unmanaged autoimmune condition. But when her eyes met Victor’s, those familiar, deep hazel eyes filled with an overwhelming tide of shock, confusion, and fear.
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"Victor?" she breathed, her voice trembling as she tried to sit up, her thin frame shaking under the thin blankets. "No... no, this is a dream. Annie, who brought..."
Victor set Annie down, dropped to his knees beside the tiny bed, and gathered Catherine into his arms.
