At the sound of the doorbell, Ludmilla suddenly had no idea how to react. Ever since she had moved into the complex at Calle la Rosa 22, the doorbell had hardly ever rung. Anyone who came to see her always arrived via the terrace and knocked on the glass door. She glanced around, as if expecting someone to help her, but neither Israel nor Juannita was in the house.
The doorbell rang again. As if whoever was outside knew Ludmilla was home but was hesitating.
The elderly woman reluctantly headed for the door. The closer she got to the hallway, the harder her heart pounded. A strange excitement swept through her—a kind of intuition. She stopped in her tracks. What if she was sensing her own doom? What if a serial killer was waiting on the other side?
“Ludmilla!” someone called from outside.
The thick ebony door and the distance distorted the voice, but one thing was clear—it was a man.
The German woman gathered all her courage—surely, she couldn’t let herself be frightened by a doorbell. She took a deep breath and decisively turned the security lock.
Standing on the threshold was Esteban, in the flesh. But this time, he wasn’t wearing his usual proud, mischievous grin. He looked worried, clearly agitated.
“Esteban!” Ludmilla rasped.
The woman was startled by the dreadful sound of her own voice. She quickly cleared her throat, but the man didn’t wait for her to try again.
“What do you know about María José and Carlos?” he asked impatiently.
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t mean whether they’re secretly sneaking off to fool around. I mean—where the hell did they go?”
Esteban’s sternness confused Ludmilla. She stared at him in silence, alarmed.
“I’m sorry,” Carlos’s friend realized. “I didn’t mean to scare you. Forgive me.”
He gently touched the woman’s elbow.
“Would you mind letting me in, so we can talk properly?”
Ludmilla nodded. Without saying a word, she invited him in—the man she had, more than once, dreamed about in all sorts of ways since the day he had lifted her in his arms.
Esteban walked confidently toward the spacious living-dining room. As soon as Ludmilla caught up, he dove right in.
“There’s trouble, my dear. Big trouble.”
“But why are you so sure? María José often doesn’t come home.”
“For two days?”
“Well, that’s true,” the German woman admitted, scratching her head. “It’s rare for her to stay away this long. I figured they’d been on a break for too long, and now they just wanted to make up for lost time in bed. Though… she really could’ve said something because of Perla. Not that I wouldn’t feed that little rascal when she’s whining…”
“That’s exactly my point,” Esteban’s voice trembled with excitement. “Carlos didn’t show up at this morning’s meeting. And that’s something no one, ever, is allowed to miss. If someone can’t make it, they’re required to give advance notice. If they don’t, and they simply don’t show up, it can only mean one thing: they’re in trouble.”
He looked at Ludmilla with flushed cheeks and a heaving chest, his gaze loaded with meaning.
“What kind of trouble could two lovebird retirees possibly get into? Did they have a heart attack while fooling around?” the woman grumbled.
“Impossible,” Esteban said gravely. “They’re not in the house. In fact, it looks like they never even made it back from dinner.”
Ludmilla collapsed onto the sofa. A tightness gripped her chest. She clutched at her heart with trembling hands as a wave of despair like she’d never known flooded her mind.
“We should call the police,” she whimpered.
“No. That’s what we’re here for—the private investigators. We’ll solve this faster than anyone else. I just needed to confirm they really didn’t come back to either of their homes.”