Chapter 4 - My Mother's Last WarningFor several seconds, neither Camila nor I spoke.
My mother had been dead for three years.
She had been a retired school administrator who kept emergency cash inside an old biscuit tin, watered her plants every morning, and believed every person deserved at least one opportunity to tell the truth.
She had never liked Iván.
But she had been polite to him, which I mistakenly thought meant she had accepted him.
“Call him back,” Camila said.
I did.
The number was unavailable.
I tried again.
Nothing.
Camila wrote down the time of the call and added Sergio's name to the evidence list.
“Did your mother ever mention a business connected to Iván?”
“No.”
“Did she ever tell you to be careful with your finances?”
I thought about it.
My mother had always encouraged me to maintain my own bank account. Even after I married Iván, she insisted that I keep my work income separate until we both agreed on our household expenses.
She had also given me a small black notebook before her final hospital stay.
For important things, she'd said.
I'd placed it inside a drawer at the apartment and forgotten about it.
Until that moment.
“There may be something at home,” I said. “A notebook she gave me.”
Camila immediately shook her head.
“Don't go back without arranging it properly. And don't contact Iván to ask about Sergio.”
“I won't.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise.”
She looked unconvinced, probably because she understood how difficult it was to stay silent when someone had dismantled your life.
Camila arranged for an investigator to document the apartment's contents and check whether there were signs of unauthorized entry. She also contacted the bank through the appropriate channels to request preservation of the records.
Meanwhile, I called the police officer handling my assault report.
I told him about the suspicious transfers, the guarantee, and Sergio's warning.
He explained that the financial allegations would need to be assessed separately from the assault investigation, although evidence could overlap. He recorded the new information and asked me to provide copies of the documents through the official reporting process.
By late afternoon, I was exhausted.
Marta insisted that I eat something.
I managed three bites of soup before my phone began vibrating repeatedly.
Iván had sent twelve messages.
The first was almost affectionate.
Alejandra, let's stop this nonsense and talk privately.
The second accused me of humiliating him.
The third warned me not to involve lawyers in family matters.
By the sixth message, his tone had changed completely.
You don't understand what you've done.
Then:
If you care about your future, you'll withdraw the police report.
Finally:
Ask your precious mother why she kept secrets from you.
I read the last sentence until the words blurred.
My mother had died after a short illness. During her final months, I had spent every evening at the hospital after work. Iván had accompanied me only twice.
He'd claimed the hospital made him uncomfortable.
I had accepted that explanation because I was too frightened of losing my mother to question anything else.
Now I wondered what he had known during those weeks.
I forwarded the messages to Camila and the officer.
Then I searched through my cloud storage for the old photographs from my mother's hospital room.
There were dozens of them.
My mother smiling weakly.
Her hand resting over mine.
A vase of flowers beside the window.
And one photograph taken on the afternoon of her birthday, when Iván had supposedly taken me out to dinner.
In the picture, my mother was sitting upright in bed. Iván stood beside her, holding a paper cup of tea.
Neither was looking at the camera.
They appeared to be arguing.
I enlarged the image.
My mother's expression wasn't angry.
It was frightened.
I'd never noticed that before.
The photograph's timestamp placed it thirty minutes before Iván and I left the hospital.
I remembered asking him what they'd discussed.
“Nothing important,” he'd said. “She was tired.”
I had believed him.
I searched the rest of the photographs from that day.
There was another image, taken accidentally as I lowered my phone. It showed Iván beside my mother's bedside cabinet, his hand inside the open drawer.
I zoomed in.
A small black notebook sat beside a stack of hospital documents.
My mother's notebook.
The same one she had given me days before.
But why would it have been in the hospital drawer?
I checked the timestamp.
The photograph had been taken before she gave me the notebook.
A cold thought formed.
Had my mother already been investigating something when she decided to give it to me?
I called the hospital and asked whether I could obtain copies of the records from her final admission. The staff explained that I would need to follow the hospital's records-access procedure, so I submitted the request.
Then I called the solicitor who had handled her estate.
He remembered me immediately.
“Your mother was very organized,” he said. “She left clear instructions regarding her property and personal documents.”
“Did she leave anything concerning Iván?”
A pause followed.
“Why are you asking?”
I explained that I had discovered suspicious financial documents and believed my husband might have used my identity.
The solicitor's tone became serious.
“Your mother visited my office several weeks before she died. She asked me to prepare a sealed letter for you.”
My fingers tightened around the phone.
“What letter?”
“She instructed me to give it to you if you ever came to believe that your financial security or property was being threatened by your husband.”
I could barely breathe.
“Why didn't you give it to me when she died?”
“Because her instructions were specific. She didn't want the letter delivered simply because you were grieving. She said you would know when the time came.”
I closed my eyes.
“Do you still have it?”
“Yes.”
“Can I collect it?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
After the call, I sat at Marta's kitchen table, staring at my untouched soup.
My mother had known something.
She had prepared for a moment she feared I might face.
And she had trusted me to find the truth when I was ready to see it.
That evening, Camila sent me a brief update.
The bank had acknowledged the fraud complaint and begun securing relevant records. She had also submitted a formal request for the original guarantee and Schedule B-17.
Then came another message.
There is an additional concern. BV Financial Services was listed as the recipient of transfers from an account linked to Northbridge Trading. We cannot yet establish the ultimate destination of the funds.
I reread it twice.
The eleven transfers from my personal savings might have been only one part of a much larger operation.
At 11:46 p.m., my phone rang.
This time, Sergio's number appeared.
I answered immediately.
“Where are you?” I asked.
“I can't tell you.”
“Why did you call me?”
“Because I saw something in Iván's office. Something with your mother's name on it.”
My heart hammered against my ribs.
“What did you see?”
“A file from Northbridge Trading. It contains invoices, payments, and a letter your mother sent to the company several months before she died.”
“What did the letter say?”
Sergio hesitated.
“She accused them of using false invoices to move money. She said she'd already found proof.”
I gripped the table.
“Then what happened?”
“Your husband went to see her at the hospital. The next day, that letter disappeared from the file.”
I felt sick.
“Are you saying Iván stole it?”
“I'm saying he told our manager that if anyone ever connected your mother's letter to Northbridge, all the blame would fall on you.”
I could hear breathing on the other end of the call.
Then Sergio added, “There's something else. Iván has been asking people whether you still have your mother's notebook.”
My gaze snapped toward my bag.
The notebook wasn't there.
It was still inside the apartment.
And Iván knew exactly what he was looking for.
“Can you get the file?” I asked.
“I already made a copy.”
“Where is it?”
“Somewhere safe.”
“Then bring it to Camila.”
“I will. But not tomorrow.”
“Why not?”
His reply was barely audible.
“Because Iván knows I called you.”
The line went dead.
I sat motionless, my phone pressed against my ear.
Outside, a car door slammed.
Footsteps crossed the hallway.
Then someone knocked on Marta's front door.
Three slow knocks.
A pause.
Three more.
Marta appeared at the kitchen entrance, her face pale.
“There is a man outside asking for you.”
She didn't need to tell me his name.
My phone vibrated one final time.
May you like
A message from Iván appeared on the screen.
Open the door, Alejandra. We need to talk about your mother.
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