Title: Midnight in the Puddle
Author: Kassfinol
Genre: Urban thriller
All rights reserved
The watch weighs more than it should for solid gold, and that’s the first thing that tells me I made a mistake.
I’m pressed against a garbage container in the alley behind the Martínez building, with freezing water seeping through the seams of my cheap shoes. It’s three in the morning on December 31st and the sleet is falling with that pasty consistency that only exists in this shitty city. In the distance, someone is already setting off fireworks. Every burst makes me jump as if I were ten years younger and still cared about living.
The watch is wrapped in my scarf, pressed against my stomach. I pull out a corner to look at it under the yellowish lamplight. It’s old, one of those with elaborate engravings and a mechanism probably worth more than my apartment. But there’s something odd about the weight. I shake it gently and hear something moving inside, something that shouldn’t be there.
—Shit.
My voice sounds hoarse in the silence of the alley. I haven’t spoken to anyone in three days, since Carla told me by message that Lucas no longer wanted to see me for New Year’s. “No more broken promises, Marco,” she wrote. As if promises were something I broke on purpose, like plates in a kitchen fight.
I push deeper into the alley. Two patrol cars pass down the main avenue with their sirens off but their lights on. Are they looking for me? Or is it just the normal end-of-year deployment? My heart beats as if it knew the answer before my brain did.
Three years ago, on Christmas Eve, Lucas was eight years old and still looked at me as if I were someone important. I promised him that would be the last time. That after that “job”, everything would change. We’d have a real Christmas, with a tree that wasn’t cheap plastic and gifts that didn’t come from the second-hand store.
What I didn’t tell him is that job was stealing a necklace from the boss’s mistress — Carla’s boss. Nor did I tell him the necklace turned out to be fake, or that the guy I stole it for paid me with a bounced check and a threat to report me if I complained.
But that wasn’t the worst of it. The worst was that Lucas saw me counting money we didn’t have, inventing an excuse about a “Christmas bonus”, and then watching me go out into the street looking for someone to lend me money to buy him something, anything, so Christmas morning wouldn’t be one more reminder of how useless his father was.
I ended up with The Spider. That’s not his real name, but nobody uses real names in this business. He lends you whatever you need, no questions, no paperwork. Only with a due date that is more sacred than anything you’ve ever heard in church.
My due date was midnight on December 31st. In exactly twenty-one hours.
And The Spider doesn’t accept apologies, extensions, or sad stories about disappointed children.
I force myself to move. The cold is starting to seep into my bones and I know that if I stay still too long, the adrenaline will evaporate and I’ll realize how truly fucked I am.
The plan was simple: steal the watch from the Hawthorne Mansion during the New Year’s Eve party, deliver it to The Contact at five in the morning in Central Plaza, collect my thirty thousand, pay The Spider his twenty, and keep ten to start the year with some dignity. Maybe even call Lucas and tell him that this time, yes, that this time everything was going to be different.
But this watch weighs wrong.
I head toward the subway. The lines are closed for the holidays, but I know a side entrance they never secure properly. The tunnels are my second home when things get ugly. Dark, cold, but safe. Nobody looks for you down there, not even the police.
The grate gives way with a rusty groan and I go down the stairs two at a time, with the watch still pressed to my chest. The smell of dampness and old urine hits me like a welcome greeting. I notice there’s only one light bulb working every fifty meters, creating these puddles of yellow light separated by stretches of absolute darkness.
I sit on a concrete bench and finally take out the whole watch. It’s beautiful, I have to admit… Gold engraved with hunting scenes, rubies inlaid marking the hours, the kind of thing you see in museums behind display cases with alarms. As far as I knew, the Hawthorne family inherited it from some European aristocrat about a hundred years ago, or so said the article I read when I researched the job.
I run my fingers over the engravings looking for some hidden mechanism. Nothing. I try turning the crown. Nothing. Then I press one of the rubies and something clicks.
The back of the watch opens like a shell, revealing a secret compartment that definitely wasn’t in the museum photos.
Inside there’s a folded piece of parchment, yellowed with time, and what looks like a thumbnail-sized microfiche.
—What the hell…
I unfold the parchment carefully. The ink is faded but still legible. It’s a list of names, dates, and numbers that look like bank accounts. And there, almost at the end of the list, written in a different, more recent ink: Lucas Sandoval. Rightful heir. Assets frozen until 2025.
My son’s last name.
My last name.
The letters dance before my eyes. I read the name again. And again. As if it would change meaning if I look at it enough times.
It can’t be. It’s a coincidence. It has to be a coincidence because the alternative is that my son, the boy who lives with his mother in a two-room apartment on the bad side of the city, has some connection to the Hawthorne family and I never knew it.
Or worse: someone wants it to look like he does.
I put the parchment and the microfiche in the inside pocket of my coat. The empty watch feels light now, as if it had expelled its venom.
I have to think. The Contact expects a watch, not a treasure map with my son’s name written on it. And The Spider expects his money at midnight or my kneecaps turn to dust. But this, whatever it is, changes everything.
What if I deliver only the watch and keep the secret? What if this is worth more than thirty thousand? What if this really belongs to Lucas?
What if it’s a trap?
My phone vibrates. A message:
“Do you have the merchandise? Don’t make me wait.”
The Contact. Punctual as a Swiss watch, which is funny considering the situation.
I write back:
“I have it. But we need to talk. There’s something more.”
The answer arrives in seconds:
“There’s nothing more. Deliver what was agreed or there’s no deal.”
“Trust me. This is going to interest you.”
Three blinking dots.
Then:
“Central Plaza. 5 AM. Not a minute late.”
I leave the tunnels around four-thirty. The city is starting to wake up with that frantic energy of the last day of the year. Groups of drunk people zigzag down the sidewalks, the bars are vomiting music and neon light, and somewhere someone is shouting premature congratulations.
Central Plaza is contained chaos. They’ve set up a giant stage with huge screens for the midnight countdown. There are street vendors selling party hats and cheap champagne, couples kissing under strings of lights, whole families camping out to get a good spot for the fireworks.
I see The Contact near the dry fountain, in his black coat and his usual unfriendly face. But he’s not alone. There’s another guy with him, bigger, with scars on his neck disappearing under his shirt.
Shit.
I approach anyway because I’m an idiot or because I have nothing left to lose. I still haven’t decided which.
—You’re late —The Contact says without looking at me, smoking a cigarette that makes the cold air look denser.
—It’s four fifty-eight. I said five.
—Every minute I wait is a minute that costs me money. —He finally looks at me—. Did you bring what I asked for?
I take out the watch. The light from the giant screens reflects off the gold and for a second it looks magical, like something that could really change a life.
The Contact takes it, examines it with an expert eye. He opens the front cover, checks the mechanism. His fingers find the ruby that opens the secret compartment.
—It’s empty.
It’s not a question.
—That’s where the interesting part comes in —I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel—. What was inside is worth much more than the watch.
The big guy takes a step toward me. I can smell his cheap cologne mixed with sweat.
—The deal was for the watch —The Contact says in that soft voice dangerous guys use right before they stop being soft—. Not for hidden treasure stories.
—Listen to me. —I take out the parchment—. This has names, accounts, connections to the Hawthorne family going back decades. And not only that, it has…
I don’t finish the sentence because the big guy grabs my arm and twists it back. The pain shoots through my shoulder like electricity.
—Give it to me —The Contact says, holding out his hand.
And that’s when I see The Spider.
He’s on the other side of the fountain, wearing his dark glasses even though it’s not dawn yet, surrounded by two of his boys. He’s looking at us. No, he’s looking at me.
Time turns elastic. The big guy still has me grabbed. The Contact waits for the parchment. The Spider approaches slowly, as if he had all the time in the world. The giant screen above our heads shows champagne ads and a countdown: 19 hours, 8 minutes, 32 seconds to midnight.
I make a decision.
I wrench my arm free from the big guy with a sudden move that costs me a pulled muscle. I shove the parchment at The Contact and run.
Not toward the exit of the plaza, that would be obvious. I run straight toward the crowd, toward the chaos of drunk, happy people, toward the only place where I can disappear.
I hear shouts behind me, but I don’t look back. I dodge a dancing couple, jump over a cooler full of beers, push a hot dog cart that topples with a metallic crash. The crowd closes behind me like water, swallowing me.
I slip into a side alley, then another, then down some stairs into the basement of a closed restaurant. I throw myself against the brick wall, panting, my heart trying to escape through my throat.
I still have the microfiche.
I don’t know why I kept it. Instinct, maybe. Or because in my twisted head, I thought that was the only thing that really mattered. The parchment has names and numbers, but the microfiche probably has the proof, the real documents, the truth, whatever it is.
And it has my son’s name.
I take out my phone with trembling hands. I dial Carla’s number, even though I know I shouldn’t, even though I know the last thing she wants is to hear my voice today.
She answers on the fourth ring.
—Marco? —Her voice sounds tired, resigned—. It’s five in the morning.
—I know, I’m sorry, I… —I choke on the words—. I need to ask you something about Lucas.
Silence. Then:
—No.
—Carla, please. It’s important. Did anyone ever tell you anything about his biological father? Before I… before we…
Another silence, longer this time.
—Marco, you’re drunk.
—I’m sober. Completely sober. For the first time in years, I’m sober and I need to know. The last name Sandoval, does it come from my family or from…?
—It was your last name —she says, and something in her voice breaks a little—. When I met you, you were the one who insisted Lucas carry your last name, even though you weren’t his biological father. You said a child needed a father, not just a name on a birth certificate.
I close my eyes.
—Who was he? The biological father.
—I don’t know. I only know he was someone with money. I was at a party where I had too much to drink; it was in a luxurious house, in a rich neighborhood. I got pregnant and didn’t know who to contact, because I literally didn’t know the man. That was a mistake; I was never that kind of woman. To avoid making the situation worse or my reputation, I preferred to leave it like that. My mother forbade me to mention what happened. She said those millionaire people don’t take responsibility for their mistakes, they only complicate everything. We were afraid they’d take the boy from us.
—Hawthorne? —My voice comes out barely a whisper—. Does that name ring a bell?
The line stays silent so long I think she hung up.
—Carla.
—If I remember correctly, that was the house where my mother worked —she finally says—. It was the Hawthorne Mansion. Why…? Marco, what did you do?
I hang up.
I spend the next fourteen hours hidden in that basement, looking at the microfiche in my phone’s light without really having any way to read it. It probably contains proof that Lucas is the bastard son of someone in the Hawthorne family. It probably contains information about an inheritance, a trust, money that belongs to him and that someone wants to keep buried.
And I, like an idiot, just handed The Contact the map to that treasure.
At seven in the evening I leave the basement. I need to eat, I need to think, I need a plan that isn’t hiding until The Spider finds me and makes me pay the way he sees fit.
I end up in a 24-hour café near the Plaza. The place is full of people getting ready for the celebration, with ridiculous costumes and party hats. I order a black coffee and sit in the corner, trying to be invisible.
My phone vibrates. Unknown number.
“We need to talk. Central Plaza, 11:45 PM. Come alone.”
No signature, but it doesn’t need one. I recognize the style: brief, direct, threatening without needing to threaten explicitly.
The Spider.
I could not go. I could take a bus to another city and disappear. But then The Spider would go after Carla, after Lucas, and they would pay for my cowardice. That’s his way. He doesn’t chase only you; he chases everything that matters to you until you have nothing left to lose.
At eleven fifteen I walk toward Central Plaza.
The place is unrecognizable. Thousands of people crowd in front of the giant screens, shouting, laughing, toasting with plastic cups. There’s thunderous music coming from the speakers, colored lights flashing in hypnotic patterns, and that particular smell of sweat, alcohol, and desperate hope that only exists in massive end-of-year celebrations.
I see The Spider near the same place where I was this morning. He’s alone this time, or at least his boys are far enough away not to be obvious.
—Marco —he says as I approach, as if we were old friends meeting for a drink—. Always so punctual when it comes to surviving.
—I have your money —I lie—. I just need until tomorrow to…
—This is no longer about the money —he interrupts me, and there’s something in his tone that freezes my blood—. Do you know what’s funny? I’ve been in this business for twenty years and never, never, has someone stolen something so valuable from me without even knowing what they had.
—I don’t know what you’re talking about.
—That microfiche. —He takes off his glasses and I see his eyes for the first time, small and dark like an insect’s—. The one you still have in the pocket of your cheap coat. It contains information that a very powerful family paid a lot of money to keep hidden. And you, in your infinite stupidity, stole it.
—It was part of the watch…
—The watch was the decoy. —He laughs, a dry, humorless sound—. The microfiche is what really mattered. And The Contact you met this morning, well, let’s say he works for the people who want to make sure that information never comes to light. Especially the part about the illegitimate heir.
My stomach turns to stone.
—Lucas.
—The boy doesn’t even know who he really is. And it’s better that way. —The Spider takes a step closer—. Give me the microfiche, Marco. You can still save this. You can still protect your son from what comes if that information becomes public.
—And then what? Do you let me go? Do we all live happily ever after?
—Then you pay your debt the traditional way and maybe, just maybe, your son grows up without knowing his stepfather died in an alley on New Year’s. —He shrugs—. Or you give me the microfiche, you try to play the hero, and what happens to him and his mother is your responsibility.
On the giant screen above our heads the counter appears: 5 minutes to midnight.
The crowd begins to shout the countdown, even though it’s too early. The anticipation is almost palpable, like electricity in the air.
I put my hand in my pocket and feel the microfiche between my fingers. So small. So insignificant. So capable of destroying the little I have left.
And that’s when I truly understand what I’ve done.
I didn’t steal a watch. I didn’t discover a secret by accident. I was the useful idiot in a much bigger plan, the guy who was going to take the blame if something went wrong. The Contact, The Spider, the Hawthorne family, they all knew exactly what was in that watch. And they put me in front of it like a dog in front of a bone, knowing I would steal it, knowing I couldn’t resist the temptation.
The question was never whether I was going to steal. The question was what I was going to do when I discovered what I had really stolen.
—Three minutes —The Spider says, looking at his wristwatch, a much more modest one than the one I stole.
I take out the microfiche and look at it in the flickering light of the screens. I could give it to him. I could end this now, pay my debt with broken kneecaps and broken fingers, and let Lucas keep being just Lucas, an eleven-year-old boy who hates his stepfather but who at least is safe.
Or I could keep it. I could try to do something good for the first time in my miserable life. I could give Lucas what belongs to him, even if that means painting a target on his back that will follow him the rest of his life.
—Two minutes —The Spider says, and now there’s steel in his voice—. Decide, Marco. What kind of father do you want to be? The coward who protects his son from the truth? Or the coward who destroys him out of pride?
The crowd shouts:
Sixty! Fifty-nine! Fifty-eight!
I look around the Plaza. I see couples kissing. Families hugging. Children on their parents’ shoulders, their eyes bright looking at the screens. And suddenly I remember Lucas at eight years old, sitting in the living room on Christmas Day, pretending the cheap gift I bought him was exactly what he wanted.
“It’s perfect, Dad,” he said, even though we knew he was lying.
That’s what children do. They lie to protect their parents from the weight of their own disappointment.
Thirty! Twenty-nine! Twenty-eight!
I close my hand around the microfiche.
—No —I say.
The Spider tilts his head.
—Excuse me?
—No. —My voice is firmer now—. I’m not going to give it to you.
—Marco…
—And not because I think this is going to make Lucas rich or happy. —The words come out in an avalanche now, as if they’d been waiting years to escape—. But because I’m tired. Tired of being the idiot everyone uses. Tired of the promises I can’t keep. Tired of lying to myself that all this is for him.
“Ten! Nine! Eight!”
The Spider makes a gesture and I see his boys approaching from the sides, closing the circle.
—Last chance.
“Seven! Six! Five!”
—He deserves to know the truth —I say, and I’m surprised to realize I really believe it—. Even if the truth is shit. Even if the truth complicates everything. Because at least it’s real. At least it’s something I didn’t take from him.
“Four! Three! Two!”
The Spider nods, almost with respect.
—Then it will be your way.
“ONE! HAPPY NEW YEAR!”
The fireworks explode above our heads, turning the sky into a chaos of light and color. The crowd shouts with deafening joy. And in that moment of collective celebration, I feel the blow to my ribs, fast and professional.
I fall to my knees. The sleet has started again, heavier now, and it mixes with something warmer coming out of my side. Someone shouts, but the sound drowns in the roar of the celebration.
The Spider crouches in front of me. He doesn’t look angry. He looks tired, as if this were just another errand on a long list of pending errands.
—The microfiche —he says, holding out his hand.
I take it out of my pocket with clumsy fingers. But instead of giving it to him, I let it fall into the puddle forming at my feet. The water begins to swallow it immediately, carrying it toward the nearest drain.
—Idiot —The Spider says, but it doesn’t matter anymore because the fireworks keep exploding and the crowd keeps shouting and I’m looking at the sky turning colors I’ve never seen before.
I think of Lucas. Not the eight-year-old Lucas who looked at me with hope. But the eleven-year-old Lucas who learned to expect nothing from me. And I realize that maybe that was the best gift I could give him: the absence of expectations. The freedom to not have to lie anymore to protect me.
—Happy New Year —I murmur, though I don’t know if the words really come out of my mouth.
The sleet falls harder. Somewhere nearby, someone is singing. Central Plaza keeps celebrating, unaware that someone has just finished their last countdown.
And the last thing I think, before everything goes black, is that maybe the promise was kept after all. Maybe this really was the last time. Maybe that counts as something, in the end, even if not in the way any of us wanted.
The End.
Defending the love you genuinely feel for someone and the truth always has a cost.