Chapter 9 - THE PRICE OF LEAVING
Karina left the courtyard with Fuentes.
I didn’t follow.
I stood beside the bench, staring at the empty space where my wife had sat.
That evening, her attorney called.
He said Karina wanted to cooperate.
He also said cooperation would require careful arrangements.
I gave him Fuentes’s number.
Then I went home with my cousin to collect clothes and the few things I couldn’t leave behind.
My wedding photograph sat on the dresser.
I turned it facedown.
Not because I hated the people in it.
Because I no longer knew who they were.
The next morning, Jorge’s company released a statement.
They described a “distressed family dispute” and “unverified accusations surrounding an elderly woman’s medical condition.”
My employer called before lunch.
“We’re not taking sides,” my supervisor said.
People usually said that just before making it clear which side frightened them more.
I took leave.
At the hospital, my mother watched me silence another call.
“What are they saying?”
“Nothing worth hearing.”
“Don’t do that.”
“What?”
“Protect me by deciding what I’m allowed to know.”
I put the phone down.
“They’re saying you’re confused. That I’m being manipulated. That this is about money.”
She nodded slowly.
“That sounds familiar.”
Fuentes arrived carrying a new folder.
The proposed sale authorization had been altered after my signature was added to the consent packet.
There were inconsistencies in the file history and the office records through which it had passed.
“That helps,” she said. “But there’s another problem.”
Jorge’s company had presented a conditional agreement to financial backers. They claimed our family had agreed to transfer the land once certain estate documents were completed.
My mother’s forged signature appeared on it.
“So stop the transfer,” I said.
“Your lawyer is seeking an order now.”
“Seeking?”
“Investigations take evidence. Property disputes take filings. We’re moving.”
I hated how reasonable she sounded.
My mother looked toward the window.
“They’re doing it again.”
I sat beside her.
“No. This time we know.”
Late that night, Elena called.
Her voice was shaking.
“Someone’s been inside my apartment.”
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Leave. Go downstairs. I’m calling Fuentes.”
“They didn’t take money.”
I already knew what she would say.
Still, I asked.
“What did they take?”
“The old address book.”
Then she paused.
“And they left a photograph on my kitchen table.”
“Of your daughter?”
May you like
“No,” Elena whispered.
“Of you outside the hospital.”
