The footsteps on the second floor began to move back and forth.

There were two pairs of quick, agile steps that seemed to be trying to escape from the room they were in, followed by a pair of heavy, clumsy steps struggling to keep up. In another room, the boy, hidden in the shadows and shielded behind the curtains, glanced downward, outside the house, where a person stood ringing the doorbell.

The person, uneasy, glanced around nervously, as if needing to get inside before someone—or something—caught up to them.

The boy sharpened his gaze; that person gave him a bad feeling.

If they don't pull the little chain for the bell, he won't open the door.

Outside that room, in another part of the house, the woman was slowly getting up. The boy kept his eyes fixed on what the person outside was about to do. To get a better look, almost imperceptibly, he leaned forward.

Then, from the gate, just before reaching for the bell chain, the person looked up and met the boy's eyes—directly and without hesitation. They weren't trying to guess if someone was there, nor were they wondering about the movement behind the curtains. No, they were looking straight at him, as if signaling that he had to come down and let them in.

The boy recoiled, moving away from the window, but the gaze remained imprinted in his memory.

The bell rang.

The boy, compelled, ran out of his room and knocked on the woman's door.

"Go down and open it."
"No!"

Disheartened by his misfortune, the boy rushed downstairs anyway. He passed by the old, battered VW Caribe and stopped at the gate, staring at the person at the entrance.

"Well, are you going to let me in or what?"

The boy unlocked the gate, let the visitor inside, and waited for them to enter. But the unexpected guest didn't pause; they walked straight into the house. The boy followed, grabbing a plastic pitcher and some glasses, preparing to offer water, but the guest spoke first:

"I don't want water. I want to see the woman."

The boy set the pitcher and glasses on the table anyway. The guest let out a low growl and then ordered him to fetch her.

"She'll be down in a moment," the boy replied and hurried up the stairs. "Have a seat, she won't take long," he called out from above.

The unexpected visitor remained standing. When the woman finally came down, moving with difficulty, she poured the water into the glasses and took her place at the far end of the table.

The visitor stared at her.

"You can sit, if you like. Tell me, what can I do for you?"

"I understand that you can make lost things appear."

"I'm sorry, no."

"What do you mean, no?! You helped the Commissioner find his kidnapped son."

"I didn't help him find anyone."

"Are you telling me you weren't the one who told him where his son was and who had taken him?"

"Listen, sir, let me remind you that you are a guest in my home. I will ask you to address me with the minimu—"

"Look, lady, you don't ask anything of me. Answer my questions honestly, and you won't find yourself caught up in any unfortunate situation."

The boy, afraid, watched the exchange. The footsteps upstairs moved like wandering spirits, trapped in the room above. The woman, irritated, prepared her response.

"Before anything else, I need you to tell me who you are and what you want."

"My name is Otilio Pérez, Commissioner of the Specialized Public Prosecutor's Office."

"Thank you. My name is—"

"Mrs. Magos, I'm here because I know who you are and what you do."

"If you knew, you wouldn't be asking me if I make things appear. Sit down, and let's talk like civilized people."

Otilio sat down with a grumble, picked up the glass of water, and drank. Meanwhile, the boy watched him from a distance. Otilio's sharp gaze jumped toward him, and the boy couldn't suppress a spasmodic flinch as he released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding—unnecessarily.

"You're right," Otilio continued. "I apologize for my manner. This job takes away a man's emotions and manners."

The woman studied him, considering whether there was truly any danger with this visitor. The boy, as if reading her thoughts, stared at her intently until she glanced at him. He shook his head subtly, signaling that she shouldn't trust him.

Otilio let out another quiet growl and cleared his throat to regain her attention.

"I don't make things appear, sir. Sometimes, I can peek through certain veils, and with the help of an object, I can occasionally perceive where certain things or people might be—difficult ones to find—and in doing so, I may help recover them."

"Yeah, yeah. And how did you know about the kidnapped boy?"

"I already told you, his parents gave me some of his belongings. That allowed me, so to speak, to attune to his vibrational frequency—the boy's—and locate him within the Universal Weave."

"Universal Weave?"

"Sir, don't take this the wrong way, but I'd like to know what you're doing here and what you're looking for."

"Shouldn't you already know?"

"No."

"Ma'am," Otilio said as he pulled out his badge, letting her see his holstered gun and placing his police credentials on the table, "you found the body of a kidnapped and murdered child—a child that neither the police nor the commissioner had managed to locate."

"That's right."

"If you knew where he was, why didn't you say something earlier?"

"I didn't know. I couldn't have guessed. And for that very reason, I couldn't say it earlier. These things disturb me. If even when we find people alive, I am unsettled and drained, imagine how I feel in cases like this little one."

"I can't imagine, Magos. That's why I'm here."

"For what?"

"To find a reason not to arrest you for kidnapping, obstruction of justice, or complicity."

"For God's sake!"

"'For God's sake?' Do you believe in God?"

"Don't you?"

"Of course not. I only believe in what I see."

"Do you hear those footsteps upstairs?"

"Are you threatening me?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Mr. Otilio," she scoffed. "Do you hear them?"

The first set of footsteps stopped abruptly; seconds later, as if dragging, the slow steps also ceased, followed by the others.

"Go upstairs, see who's there, and tell me what you find."

"I'm not going upstairs. Tell me instead how you believe in God. Oh, I know! You've already found Him."

"No, I haven't found Him."

"Is it just faith?"

"No, not that either."

"..."

"It's hard to look at everything—the world, people, our minds—and not understand that there is a God."

"Okay, okay... let's go back to the witchcraft."

Magos snorted.

"What do you want?"

"I want to know how, without knowing—supposedly—anyone involved, you knew that the child was walled up in the basement of the commissioner's brother-in-law, his very own brother-in-law."

The woman's expression twisted into an unmistakable grimace of pain. Just remembering it made her stomach churn.

"Look, Otilio, explaining this to you will be very difficult for me, and for you, it will be impossible to understand," Otilio smirked at this comment, ready to reply, but Magos continued. "I'll make you a proposal: let me peer into the Universal Weave. Ask me about something you've lost at any point in your life, and I'll try to tell you where it is, in a way that you can find it and, maybe, if you're lucky, even recover it."

"What kind of thing?"

"Anything."

"A missing sock?"

"If you have the other one, yes."

"You can make anything appear?"

"I don't make things appear, sir! And it's about time you showed me some respect in my own home. I don't have to prove anything to you or anyone else, but I offer it to you. Stop with the nonsense and mockery!" she said, gripping the table with both hands as she straightened up at the head of the table, furious.

Otilio chuckled, satisfied. If he had managed to make her indignant, he had opened the door to her emotions—forever. And he knew exactly how to keep an imaginary foot wedged in that imaginary entrance, gaining access to her deepest, most secret feelings whenever the occasion demanded.

"I'm sorry, Magos. Forgive me, please," he said as he reached for her shoulders and gently guided her back into her seat. Instead of returning to his place at the table, he dragged a chair close beside her, creating a more intimate setting.

"I have some objects here. These objects belong to a murderer."

"Uh-huh."

"Tell me, please, where can I find him?"

"I need a photo."

"The only thing I can give you is a picture of a crime scene. Will that do?"

Magos widened her eyes and took it. It was a photograph of a bar destroyed by an explosion. She placed the objects outside of the bag they had been kept in. They were charred remnants. Then, she set the photo on top of them, lit three candles, turned over a glass, and prayed:

"God, please let what I am looking for appear, because I cannot see it."

She positioned her fingers into a triangle and began the ritual.

One of her eyelids drooped halfway shut, and her long nails darkened, as if she had been digging into the earth. Magos murmured unintelligible words, while her features withered, as if years were passing only within the space where she moved. The hibiscus water evaporated on its own, and a cascade of doubts gnawed at Otilio's thoughts.

What should he do if she actually told him where to find the killers? On one hand, he didn't believe she was capable of such a thing, and launching an operation based on her words alone would be absurd. But on the other hand, if she truly could locate them... well, that would be an entirely different matter.

Suddenly, the footsteps upstairs thundered again—fast, rough, frantic. The boy, now wide-eyed, ran around the house turning on the lights, then clung to the railing, whispering responses to whatever the witch was muttering.

The footsteps stopped abruptly.

The door creaked, and the lights inside the house flared with blinding intensity. At the same time, a total darkness engulfed the outside. The flickering bulbs seemed on the verge of burning out. Then, the footsteps sounded again, rushing down the stairs—behind the boy—who shut his eyes in fear.

Otilio's eyes widened. He saw no one behind the boy. No one heading for the door. And yet, the sound of something leaving the house was unmistakable. The door slammed shut violently, making him jump. Magos almost smiled.

A lightning bolt cracked, striking the door, followed by a deafening thunderclap. Hail began to pelt down, just as the house's lights returned to normal.

Otilio looked at her.

"Do you know where they are?"

Magos, defeated, made a faint motion with her head, neither a nod nor a shake—she didn't want to tell Otilio where to find them.

"Tell me, Magos."

"There's a price to pay."

"You'll pay the price if you don't tell me."

"You don't understand, it doesn't work like that."

"We'll make it work."

"Otilio, if I tell you what you want, and you don't pay a fair price, you will pay—one way or another—for what you are unable to find on your own."

"Your threats don't scare me."

"They're not threats."

"Tell me, or I'll take you to the MPE this very moment."

The boy and Magos exchanged a look. She shrugged and wrote a few notes on a napkin. Just as she was about to hand it over, she hesitated, added one more line, and then finally passed it to him.

Otilio took the napkin, laughing as he leaned back in his chair.

"What the hell is this?"

"It's the place and time where you can find the criminal."

"Santa Cecilia 8, Buenavista de Cuéllar. August 30, 3:33 PM," he read aloud. "And what's this? 'Your family, in a violent explosion of rage, and your life at the hands of a madwoman'?"

"The price."

"'The price'?"

"The price you'll pay if you go after them. What you'll lose... for finding them."