The tattoo still burned in Maristela's memory.
The figure with open arms. The circle in place of the head. The Latin phrase she didn't understand, but knew was important.
"Pro vita aeterna laboro."
The phrase still echoed.
What eternal life? Dan's? D.R.'s? What did a corrupt priest have to do with ancient coins and pagan symbols?
The Orphan's voice came low, calculating:
'You saw it. Now you understand. Dan wasn't just a perverted priest. He was part of something. Something that has a symbol.'
Maristela swallowed hard. Her throat burned.
"The police will investigate. They'll find the tattoo. They'll find the safe. They'll find the letters. And they'll start asking: who is D.R.?"
'And me?' her voice came out in a whisper.
'You'll just be one more. One more novice who disappeared. One more girl who talked too much. One more number in a report no one will read.'
The idea formed. Clear. Perfect.
Maristela stood up. She looked at the destroyed room. At the body. At the blood. At the mess she herself had created.
She wanted to run. Wanted to never see that room again. But the image of the tattoo wouldn't leave — and with it, the certainty that if she didn't act, it would find her.
'Let's work.'
She went to Dan's desk. Papers. Inkwell. Quills. Everything there, organized, clean, as if the owner might return at any moment to write more sermons, more letters, more lies.
She took a sheet of paper. Smooth, white, good quality. Dipped the quill in the inkwell.
She needed a name. A novice's name that didn't exist.
"Sister Ana Clara," she murmured. "You're from the countryside. Arrived a few months ago. You're naive. You're fearful. But you discovered things you shouldn't."
She began to write. With her left hand.
The handwriting came out shaky, irregular, childish. Perfect.
"Dear Cecília,
I need to tell you something terrible. Father Dan… he's not what he seems. He calls the youngest novices to his room at night. He says it's for 'community duties.' But it's not. I saw it. I heard the crying.
Some girls were never the same after they left that room. Some disappeared. Silvane, who was the oldest, now spends her nights awake. Clara, who is nine, cries when someone knocks on the door.
I need help. I need someone outside to know what happens here.
If something happens to me, it was him. It was Father Dan.
Pray for me,
Ana Clara."
She stopped. Read what she had written. The tears came — not hers, but from the words. From the invented girl denouncing what Maristela had lived through.
'Good,' the voice approved. 'Now age it.'
She crumpled the paper. Uncrumpled it. Crumpled it again. Rubbed it on the floor, in the dust, in the dried blood. The paper became rough, with marks of deep creases. It smelled of blood and earth. She blurred it slightly with water so the ink would run in some spots. Let it dry while she worked on other things.
When it was ready, the letter looked like it had been written weeks ago. Maybe months. The paper was dirty, the edges worn, the ink smeared in places.
She folded it. Put it inside an envelope — one of Dan's envelopes, with the convent's seal. Addressed it to "Cecília — in person." Then, she tore the envelope slightly at the edge, as if it had been opened and resealed.
The story: Ana Clara wrote the letter. Dan intercepted it. Read it. And made the girl disappear.
Perfect.
Now, the most important letter.
She needed to imitate Dan's handwriting. She had seen D.R.'s letter — the firm, elegant handwriting of someone used to giving orders. Did Dan write differently? She didn't know. But she had to try.
She took another sheet. Practiced the handwriting in the corner a few times. Did it look similar? Maybe. Enough.
She wrote:
"The girl is dead. On the banks of the Tietê, near the floodplain, where no one will look. She knew too much. Talked too much. She couldn't stay alive. May God have mercy on her soul — and on mine."
She hesitated. Read it again. Was it good? Was it believable?
'Add the date.'
She added: "August 6, 1916."
Signed: "Father Dan Carlo."
She folded the letter. Didn't put it in an envelope — left it loose, as if he had written it and kept it for himself, a private confession.
She opened the safe again.
The same safe where she had found the coins, the list with D.R., the letter. The red velvet stained by time. The smell of old paper and secrets.
Now, she needed to arrange the scene.
She scattered the papers. Left everything rummaged through, as if someone had been searching for something. Some documents fell to the floor. Others were piled inside the safe.
The letter she had just written — Dan's "confession" — she placed in the middle, clearly visible.
She left the list with D.R. there too. But now, next to it, she placed one of the coins. The headless figure, the open arms, the cold metal against the paper. A visual clue. An enigma for the investigators.
She took some documents — the ones that seemed most compromising, with official seals, names of important people, signatures she didn't recognize — and carried them to the fireplace.
Struck a match. The flame danced on the tip.
She burned them one by one.
The flames rose, consumed the paper, left black ashes that crumbled at the touch. The heat reached her face, but she didn't step back.
She didn't burn them all. Just a few. Enough to look like someone tried to destroy evidence, but was interrupted.
She scattered the ashes on the floor, near the fireplace. With her feet, she crushed them further, mixed them with the dust, the blood, the dirt.
She remembered the book. Dante's "Inferno." Where she had hidden the safe key.
She took the book from the shelf. Opened it to the hollow carved into the pages — the cavity where the key had been kept. Now empty.
She needed to return the book to a place that made sense.
She put it on the shelf. Not in its original spot — slightly crooked, tilted, as if it had been grabbed hastily and poorly put back.
The key? It was in her pocket. She put it in the pocket of Dan's jacket, hanging on the chair. Hidden, but not too much. Whoever looked would find it.
Whoever looked would understand: Dan kept the key in the book. Someone took the book, opened the safe, and then put the book back crooked, in a hurry. The key stayed in the pocket — forgotten? Left on purpose?
It didn't matter. It was one more piece.
One more leaf.
Now, she needed to write as Dan again. But this time, not a confession — a plea.
She practiced the handwriting one more time. Then wrote:
"D.R.,
Someone is asking questions. I don't know who it is, but he asked about the convent. About the girls. About you.
I don't feel safe. I need instructions. I need to know what to do if he comes back.
Help me.
— Father Dan Carlo."
She folded it. Then crumpled it. Crumpled it hard, as if it had been thrown away with anger, with fear, with despair.
Her hand hesitated over the paper. If D.R. really existed, this letter could attract him. But maybe that was exactly what she needed — a scapegoat.
She threw the letter in the trash — a straw basket next to the desk, full of crumpled papers, food scraps, cigarette butts. She reached her hand into the basket, mixed the new letter with the other debris, made sure it wasn't too visible, but also not completely hidden.
The message was clear: Dan was paranoid. Dan was afraid. Dan wrote to D.R. asking for help — and then threw it away, perhaps out of shame, perhaps out of desperation, perhaps because he didn't have time to send it.
Maristela stopped in the middle of the room.
Looked around.
What would an investigator see?
Dan's body. On his side, as if he had fallen and stayed that way. His cassock straightened — she had straightened it — but dirty, stained, twisted at strange angles. His head with the bruise on his forehead, where it had hit the corner of the table. The fingernail marks on his face — a woman's nails, yes, but they could be any woman's. Any victim who fought back.
The room ransacked. Broken furniture. Scattered books. Pictures torn from the walls, stepped on, ripped.
The fireplace with ashes of burned documents, still warm, scattered on the floor.
The safe open, the wooden hatch wide, papers rummaged through, some on the floor, others piled inside.
The letter from "Ana Clara" — a report of abuse — on the desk, as if someone had found it and left it there to be seen.
Dan's letter — a confession of murder — inside the safe, clearly visible.
The crumpled letter to D.R. in the trash.
The list with D.R. and the symbol, and next to it, a gold coin with the same headless figure.
Dante's book out of place on the shelf.
The key in Dan's jacket pocket.
The story that emerged:
Dan was a corrupt priest who abused novices. One of them, Ana Clara, wrote a letter denouncing the abuse. Dan intercepted the letter. In a panic, he wrote a confession — he killed the girl, buried the body near the Tietê River. But someone found out. Someone came after him. They argued. They fought. The intruder killed Dan, but not before discovering his secrets. Ransacked the safe. Burned some documents. Left the scene as a warning. Escaped through the window.
And Maristela?
Just another missing novice. Another victim of Dan. Another one who "disappeared for talking too much."
No one would look for her. No one would connect her name to the crime.
'Perfect.'
The Orphan's voice was a whisper of approval.
'Now go.'
She looked at the window.
Second floor. Almost four meters down.
The window opened to the night.
Cold air rushed in, carrying away some of the smell. Outside, the inner courtyard. The back wall. Freedom.
She was going to jump. Disappear. Go...
Footsteps in the corridor.
Maristela froze.
The footsteps were fast, hurried, desperate. And they were coming toward the door.
"Father Dan?" The Mother Superior's voice, high-pitched, trembling. "Father Dan, did you hear the bell? Something happened, we need to..."
She stopped.
Silence.
One second. Maybe two.
The Mother processed the smell. The wrong silence. The premonition.
Then:
"Maristela? CHILD, ARE YOU IN THERE?"
Maristela didn't answer. She couldn't. Her voice got stuck in her throat.
The Mother pounded on the door. Three times. Hard.
"Maristela! Answer me!"
Nothing.
And then the Mother saw it.
The blood.
Seeping under the door. Thin, dark, gleaming in the light of the corridor's oil lamps.
"NO!" The Mother's scream tore through the night. "FATHER DAN, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, OPEN THIS DOOR! WHAT DID YOU DO TO HER?"
She pounded on the door with her fists. One, two, three times. The wood creaked, but didn't give.
"MARISTELA! MY GOD, MARISTELA, ANSWER ME!"
Tears in the Mother's voice. Real desperation. Fear.
Maristela looked at the window. There was still time. Jump. Flee. Disappear.
'She thinks you're dead,' the Orphan's voice whispered, calm. 'Thinks he killed you. Let her think that. Disappear.'
But Maristela didn't move.
"Mother…" Maristela's voice came out hoarse, tired, but firm. "I'm okay."
Silence. Then, a muffled sob.
"Maristela? Thank God, thank God… Open the door, child. For the love of God, open it."
Maristela took a deep breath.
"I'm okay, Mother," she said slowly, each word weighing like lead. "But not thanks to you."
The words wounded. The Mother blinked, as if she'd been slapped. Her face contorted — guilt, shame, something that wasn't quite said. But she didn't answer. She couldn't.
Another silence. Painful.
"Open the door," the Mother repeated, now in a whisper.
Maristela unlocked it.
The door creaked open, revealing the scene.
The Mother took a step back. Her eyes scanned the room — the body, the blood, the symbols, the stone in the dead hand. Her face paled. Her hand flew to her mouth.
"Maristela…" Her voice failed. "You… My God…"
She staggered, leaned against the door frame. Her eyes fixed on the horror, but also on Maristela. On the living girl, covered in blood, standing in the middle of the destruction.
Maristela waited. Waited for the scream. The accusation. The horror.
But the Mother straightened her body. Swallowed hard. Stared Maristela in the eyes.
And said:
"Thank you."