Chapter 4: Play It
The police arrived in twelve minutes.
Two officers.
One older, one young enough that the chapel's grief seemed to visibly unsettle him.
They spoke with Father Augusto first, then approached Ricardo.
Helena watched from three pews away, flanked by the two men in suits who had not introduced themselves to anyone and had not been asked to leave.
"Sir," the older officer said, "we were told there may be evidence relevant to a death investigation."
"There is." Ricardo held up the phone.
"A recording.
Made by the woman whose funeral this is."
"That phone is private property," Helena said, loud enough to carry.
"It was taken from my sister's home without permission."
"It was taken from my doll." Bia's voice was small but perfectly clear.
"Mama put it there.
Mama said it was mine to keep safe."
The young officer looked at Bia.
He didn't say anything.
He didn't need to.
The older officer turned to Helena.
"Ma'am, I'm going to need you to stay where you are while we sort this out."
"I am not a suspect.
I am the deceased's next of kin and I have every legal right—"
"Ma'am." He said it once more, quietly, and Helena stopped.
Ricardo unlocked the phone.
Bia had given him the code — four digits, Vera's birthday, the one number Helena would never have tried because it would have meant thinking of her sister as a person rather than a problem.
The recording was the only file in a folder labeled with Ricardo's name.
He pressed play and held the phone so the officer could hear.
Vera's voice filled the space between them — thin, careful, slightly breathless, but unmistakably hers.
*"Ricardo.
If you're hearing this, then what I was afraid of has already happened.
I need you to know that I didn't get sick by accident.
I need you to know that Helena controls the trust.
I need you to know that Bia is the sole heir, and Helena has been telling me for months that children Bia's age don't always survive losing a parent.
She said it like it was comfort.
It wasn't comfort."*
A sound moved through the chapel.
Not a gasp.
Something quieter and worse.
*"There is a document.
She had me sign it six weeks ago.
She said it was a medical authorization.
I didn't read it carefully enough.
I should have.
Ricardo — please.
Find the document.
Find out what I signed.
And please don't let Bia out of your sight."*
The recording ended.
No one spoke.
Bia was looking at the floor.
Her hands were very still around the doll she was still holding, the doll with the hollow space where the phone had been hidden.
Helena broke the silence first.
"That recording was made by a woman who was on three different medications and had been told she had months to live.
She was terrified and confused and she latched onto a story that made her feel like her death would mean something." Her voice was almost gentle.
"I loved my sister.
What you just heard is grief talking.
It is not evidence."
Ricardo looked at the officer.
"The document she mentioned — a medical authorization signed six weeks ago.
I'd like to know what it actually authorized."
Helena's chin lifted half an inch.
"I'd like to know that too," the officer said.
He looked at Helena.
"Ma'am, do you have a copy of that document?"
"I don't carry legal paperwork to funerals."
"Then we'll need the name of your attorney."
One of the men in dark suits put his hand on Helena's arm — a small gesture, meant to look supportive.
It looked like something else.
"Don't," Helena said quietly, to the man.
Not to the officer.
To the man.
He lowered his hand.
The young officer was writing in his notebook.
He had been writing since the recording ended.
Dolores, still seated in the pew, reached into her coat pocket and produced a second envelope — smaller, unsealed.
"Vera gave me this separately," she said.
"She said it was a copy of the signature page.
She photographed it herself."
Helena turned to look at Dolores with an expression that had finally run out of calculation.
"She was more prepared than you thought," Dolores said simply.
Ricardo took the second envelope from Dolores and handed it directly to the officer.
Helena looked at the door once more.
The young officer was already standing closer to it than he had been a moment ago.
Not blocking it.
Just closer.
"I want to call my attorney," Helena said.
"That's your right," the older officer said.
"But I'll need you to make that call here."
Helena reached into her bag for her phone.
Her hand was steady.
Everything else about her had gone very quiet in the way that things go quiet just before they break.
Bia leaned against Ricardo's side.
He put his arm around her without looking down, the way people do when the gesture has become instinct.
"Is Mama's voice going to be okay?" Bia asked.
"On the phone.
Is it going to stay there?"
"It's going to stay there," Ricardo said.
"I promise."
Outside, through the chapel's narrow side window, the afternoon light was beginning to shift.
May you like
The white lilies on the altar had not moved.
The memorial photograph of Vera still faced the room — her expression in it patient, almost expectant, as if she had known this moment was coming and had simply been waiting for everyone else to catch up.
