The Civil Police were called because the body could no longer be taken to the crematorium. Not with a live baby inside. Not with a signed authorization lying on a table. Not with so many questions arising all at once.
An officer reviewed the basic documents, without yet touching anything related to the expert report. In the blue folder were ultrasound scans, a copy of the preliminary accident report, and a medical note that Marcos didn’t understand.
The time didn’t match.
It wasn’t conclusive proof. It wasn’t an indictment. But it was a crack. And sometimes an investigation begins exactly like that, with a small number that refuses to fit.
Ana Clara was rushed to Hospital das Clínicas. Marcos got into the ambulance without asking permission. No one dared to make him get out. During the journey, he held his wife’s cold hand and spoke with Miguel.
“Hang on, son,” he whispered. “Your dad is here.”
The sound of the machinery mingled with the siren. Every curve seemed like a threat. Every traffic light added another second between Ana Clara’s death and the possibility of saving her son.
At the hospital, the team was already waiting. Doctors, nurses, and obstetricians whisked Ana Clara down the corridor at a speed that left no room for questions. Marcos tried to follow, but they stopped him at the door of the surgical center.
—Sir, you must wait here.
“I can’t lose them both,” he said, almost voiceless. “I’ve already lost her. I can’t lose him too.”
A nurse held his arm. She didn’t promise miracles. She just told him they would do everything they could. For Marcos, that was the cruellest and most necessary phrase of the night.
The door closed.
