The Escayola that hid death

The lights in VIP Room 7 flickered once more.

For a few seconds, nobody moved. The sound of the heart monitor seemed to bounce off the walls. The distorted voice that had come through the intercom still hung in the air like an invisible threat.

"The boy shouldn't have made it that far alive."

Miguel lay motionless beside the bed. His face, already pale from the rain and cold, had lost all color. His small hand was still clasped in Augusto Valente's wrinkled hand, but now it trembled so much that the billionaire felt his fingers grow cold.

Dr. Helena Duarte put her hand to her mouth.

Dr. Álvaro Mendes, held back by security guards, lowered his eyes too quickly.

Augustus saw.

"Who said that?" asked the billionaire.

No one answered.

The head of security, Duarte, reached for the communicator strapped to his ear.

— Central? This is Duarte. Restore the cameras in the VIP wing immediately.

Silence.

He frowned.

— Central, respond.

Nothing.

The rain continued to beat against the high windows of the suite. Outside, the city shone silently, unaware that, on the seventh floor of Lisbon's most protected clinic, an empire had just been attacked from within.

Augusto slowly let go of Miguel's hand and looked at the head of security.

No one leaves this wing.

- Yes sir.

No one enters without my permission.

- Yes sir.

— And bring me a phone that isn't connected to the clinic's system.

Dr. Helena took a nervous step.

— Mr. Valente, you need to calm down. Your condition…

"My condition," Augusto interrupted, with a dangerous calm, "was used as a weapon against me. Don't speak to me again as if I were a helpless patient."

Helena stepped back.

Miguel watched everything with wide eyes. Now that the initial burst of courage had passed, he looked like a child again: thin, wet, frightened, with mud up to his knees and his heart beating too fast.

Augusto noticed the open envelope on the sheets. The photographs. The documents. The small red light of the device hidden inside the broken plaster cast.

Then she looked at Miguel.

How did you get in here?

Miguel swallowed hard.

— Through the delivery door.

"That's impossible," Álvaro said dismissively. "The service entrance has biometric control."

Miguel looked at him with hatred.

— Not when they leave the door ajar to receive unregistered packages.

The head of security turned to one of the men.

— Check this out.

The security guard left quickly.

Álvaro tried to laugh.

— You see? He's making things up. A kid from the street wouldn't know anything about internal protocols.

Miguel pointed to the ground, where pieces of white plaster were mixed with mud.

— I used to sleep near the loading dock. I saw who came in. I saw who went out. I saw Dr. Helena throwing boxes in the trash at three in the morning. I saw Dr. Álvaro come in without a badge two nights in a row.

Helena's face hardened.

Liar.

"No," said Miguel. "I can count better than you think. When you sleep on the street, you either learn to count steps, cars, and faces... or you disappear."

The sentence made the room feel heavier.

Augusto studied the boy closely. There was something about him that deeply troubled the billionaire. It wasn't just his courage. It wasn't just the bracelet with the initials AV. It was the way he pressed his lips together before speaking, as if each word had to cross a barrier of pride and pain.

Augusto recognized that gesture.

His daughter, Clara, did the same when she was little.

"Who gave you this envelope?" Augusto asked.

Miguel lowered his eyes.

— A nurse.

- Name.

— Dona Teresa.

Helena let out a small breath of inspiration.

Álvaro closed his eyes for a moment.

Augusto realized it again.

Teresa, what about Teresa?

— Teresa Almeida. She worked here. She was old. She had crooked hands, but she was good to me. Sometimes she would give me bread when I stayed near the back of the clinic.

Duarte, the head of security, fiddled with his tablet.

— Mr. Valente, Teresa Almeida has been listed as retired for three months.

Miguel shook his head.

That's a lie. I saw her yesterday.

- Where?

The boy hesitated.

Fear returned to his eyes.

— In the old parking lot. She was injured… not badly, but she had blood on her sleeve. She said I had to deliver the envelope to you before midnight.

Augusto looked at the clock on the wall.

11:47 PM.

Thirteen minutes.

— And why didn't you hand it in at reception?

Miguel let out a bitter laugh.

— To the reception? They won't even let me touch the carpet.

No one in the room answered.

Because everyone knew it was true.

Miguel continued:

— I tried to speak with the lawyer. I waited outside the gate. She came in a gray car. She argued with security. She said she had permission to see you. They sent her away. Then a man followed her car.

Augusto squeezed the envelope.

— A man?

— Tall. Wearing a black coat. He had gloves. He had a scar on his neck.

Duarte raised his head.

— I recognize that description. It's not from our team.

Álvaro interrupted:

This is becoming ridiculous. A wet kid barges into a suite, destroys a medical restraint, accuses professionals without concrete evidence, and now he's inventing murderers in black coats.

Miguel turned to him.

— I didn't invent the camera inside the plaster cast.

Silence spoke for everyone.

Augusto looked at Duarte.

— Take the device for analysis. But no one at the clinic will touch it.

- Yes sir.

— And find Teresa Almeida.

Duarte hesitated.

Sir, with the cameras off…

Then use trustworthy men. Your own. Not theirs.

Duarte nodded and left.

Helena glanced discreetly at the door, as if planning an escape.

Augustus saw.

The doctor will stay.

She stopped.

I am not a prisoner.

- Not yet.

The sentence made the doctor pale.

Miguel moved away from the bed, as if he didn't want to be near adults when they started talking about power. Augusto called him back.

— Miguel.

The boy stopped.

The bracelet.

Miguel pulled up his coat sleeve to cover his wrist.

— I already said. It belonged to my mother.

— Her name.

The boy pressed the empty envelope against his chest, even though he had already handed it over.

Clara.

Augusto's world stopped.

Even the rain didn't seem to stop.

Helena closed her eyes.

Álvaro bit the inside of his mouth.

Augusto didn't breathe for several seconds.

— Clara what? — she asked, but her voice came out lower.

Miguel looked at him suspiciously.

Clara Nunes.

Augusto closed his eyes.

Clara Nunes.

The fake name.

The name his daughter had used when she ran away from her family eleven years earlier, after an argument that never left Augusto's memory.

He could still see Clara on the staircase of the Valente mansion, twenty-three years old, a suitcase in her hand and tears in her eyes.

"Dad, one day you'll realize that not everyone around you loves you."

He had called her ungrateful.

She replied that his money was a cage.

And then it disappeared.

For years, Augusto had paid investigators, lawyers, private security guards. Nothing. Not a trace. Until he was told that Clara had probably died abroad, without documents, without a body, without a farewell.

Now a boy from the street was standing before him with her bracelet.

"Is your mother alive?" Augusto asked.

Miguel did not respond.

— Miguel.

The boy turned his face towards the window.

- I don't know.

The honesty of the response was worse than a confirmation.

When was the last time you saw her?

— Three weeks ago.

- Where?

Miguel clenched his fists.

— In a room without windows.

Helena let out an almost inaudible sound.

Augusto turned to her.

What do you know about this?

Nothing.

"That's a lie," said Miguel.

Helena exploded:

Shut up! You don't know who you're talking to!

The boy recoiled, frightened for the first time.

Augusto slammed his hand on the side of the bed.

Enough!

His voice echoed so loudly that even the security guards straightened up.

Helena stood motionless.

Augusto pointed at Miguel.

This boy has arrived where all my lawyers, doctors, and security guards have failed. He came in dirty, wet, and desperate, but he brought the truth. Therefore, until proven otherwise, he is the only person in this room I will listen to.

Miguel looked at him, surprised.

No one had ever said that for him before.

Nobody.

Suddenly, the door opened and Duarte quickly returned, accompanied by two security guards.

— Mr. Valente, we found something.

— Teresa?

— Not yet. But the service entrance was unlocked. And there was this on the floor.

He handed over a small, torn identification card.

Augusto grabbed him.

The photograph was by Teresa Almeida.

But behind the card, there was a message written hastily, in blue pen.

"If the boy has arrived, protect him. He is your own flesh and blood."