Offering to the Storm. Dolores Redondo

would find out, and they did. I’ve always been careful, but I was right: there’s no protection from them. Somehow they’ve put it inside me, I can feel it tearing at my guts. Like a fool, I thought it was heartburn, but as the hours go by I realise what’s happening, it is devouring me, killing me, so I may as well tell you.

       It’s a rundown old farmhouse, with brown walls and a dark roof. I haven’t been there for years, but they used to keep the shutters closed. You’ll find it on the road to Orabidea, in the middle of a huge meadow, the only one of its kind in the area. There are no trees, nothing grows there, and you can only see it from the bend in the road.

       It’s a black house, I don’t mean the colour, but what’s inside. I won’t bother warning you not to go poking around there, because if you are who you claim to be, if you survived the fate they had in store for you, they’ll find you anyway.

       May God protect you,

       Elena Ochoa

      The incongruous ring of her phone in the enclosed space of the car made her jump. She dropped Elena Ochoa’s letter, which fell between the pedals. Nervous and confused, she answered the call, leaning forward to try to reach the piece of paper.

      She could sense the weariness in Inspector Iriarte’s voice at the end of what for him had been an arduous day. Amaia glanced at her watch, as she realised that she’d completely forgotten about Iriarte. It was gone eleven.

      ‘They’ve just finished doing Elena Ochoa’s post-mortem. I swear, I’ve never seen anything like it in my life, Inspector.’ Amaia heard him take a deep breath, then exhale slowly. ‘San Martín has recorded the cause of death as suicide by ingestion of sharp objects – talk about an understatement! But what else could he put? In all his years as a professional, he’d never seen the like either,’ he said, giving a nervous laugh.

      She felt the beginnings of a migraine and she started to shiver, vaguely aware that these physical sensations were related to Elena’s letter, and to Inspector Iriarte’s seeming inability to explain himself.

      ‘Take me through it, Inspector,’ she ordered.

      ‘You saw the amount of walnut shavings she spewed up. Well, there were traces in the stomach too, but the intestines were full—’

      ‘I understand.’

      ‘No, you don’t, Inspector. When I say “full”, I mean literally filled to bursting, like an over-stuffed sausage. In some places, the shavings had perforated the intestinal wall, even reaching the surrounding organs.’

      The migraine had suddenly taken hold; her head felt like a steel helmet being hammered from outside.

      Iriarte took a deep breath and went on:

      ‘Seven metres of small intestine and another metre and a half of large intestine, crammed with walnut shavings until they were twice the normal size. The doctor couldn’t believe that the gut wall hadn’t exploded. And do you know what the strangest thing was? He couldn’t find a single piece of nut, only the shells.’

      ‘What else did San Martín say? Could she have been force-fed?’

      Iriarte sighed.

      ‘Not while she was still alive. The intestine is highly sensitive; the pain would probably have killed her. I have photographs. San Martín is busy preparing the autopsy report. I expect we’ll have it by tomorrow morning. I’m going home now, though I doubt I’ll be able to sleep,’ he added.

      Convinced she wouldn’t either, Amaia took a couple of sedatives. Then she slipped into bed alongside James and Ibai, letting the rhythmical breathing of her loved ones bring her the peace she so desperately needed. She spent the next few hours trying to read, gazing every now and then at the dark recess of the window, at the shutters open a crack so that from her side of the bed she could glimpse the first light of dawn.

      Amaia wasn’t aware of having fallen asleep, although she knew she had been sleeping when the intruder came in. She didn’t hear her enter, she couldn’t hear her footsteps or her breathing. She could smell her: the scent of her skin, her hair, her breath was engraved on Amaia’s memory. A scent that rang alarm bells; the scent of her enemy, her executioner. She felt a desperate panic, even as she cursed herself for having let down her guard, for having allowed her to come this close, for if Amaia could smell her, then she was too close.

      The little girl inside her prayed to the god of all victims to take pity on them, alternating her prayer with the command that must never be disobeyed: don’t open your eyes, don’t open your eyes, don’t open your eyes, don’t open your eyes, don’t open your eyes. She let out a scream of rage not of fear, a scream that came from the woman not the little girl: You can’t hurt me, you can’t hurt me now. Then she opened her eyes. Rosario was stooping over her bed, inches from her face, so close she was a blur; her eyes, nose and mouth blotting out the room, the cold still clinging to her garments, making Amaia shiver.