Chapter 8 - The Man Who Held My Mother's LetterI wanted to believe Brenda was lying.
That was the most frightening part.
Not the accusation itself, but the realization that I no longer knew which people I could trust.
My mother had trusted Andrés Salvatierra enough to leave him a sealed letter. I had trusted him enough to accept it without question. Yet Brenda's photograph suggested that his initials were connected to a document my mother believed was important.
Camila arranged a meeting with Andrés the next morning.
She made it clear that I would not attend alone, and that we would not accuse him of a crime based on an unverified photograph. We needed the original notebook page, the full documents, and his explanation.
Andrés welcomed us into the same office where he had handed me my mother's letter.
He looked tired.
When Camila placed the photograph on his desk, he studied it without touching it.
“Where did you obtain this?” he asked.
“Someone who claims to possess my mother's notebook sent it to me,” I replied. “She says your initials are connected to the first false invoice.”
Andrés removed his glasses.
“I never signed a false invoice.”
“Then what does this notation mean?”
He looked at the screen again.
“Your mother asked me to witness the transfer of certain documents into her private archive. She wanted a record showing when I received them and who had delivered them.”
“Why would that involve Northbridge Trading?”
“Because she believed the company had been using misleading invoices, and she wanted an independent record of the documents she had collected.”
He paused.
“I advised her not to make accusations without sufficient evidence. She was determined to preserve what she had found, but she did not want to hand everything directly to the authorities until she understood the implications for you.”
I stared at him.
“She was trying to protect me?”
“That was her intention.”
“Then why didn't you tell me any of this when she died?”
His expression changed.
“Because she asked me to release the letter only if you faced circumstances that matched the concerns she described. She believed you would be safer if you knew nothing until there was evidence you could act upon.”
I thought about the last months of my mother's life, when I had dismissed her concerns as anxiety.
“She was already afraid of Iván.”
“Yes.”
“And you knew?”
“I knew she feared that your name was being used without your consent. I did not know the full extent of what had happened.”
Camila placed a printed copy of the disputed invoice on his desk.
“Do you recognize this?”
Andrés examined it carefully.
“This is not the document I received from your mother.”
“What is different?”
“The invoice number appears identical, but the authorization page has been altered. The original contained a handwritten note identifying the person who delivered the invoice to her. This version has a different attachment.”
“Can you prove that?”
“I may be able to. I kept a copy of the inventory and the receipt I prepared when your mother delivered the papers.”
He opened a filing cabinet and removed a bound folder.
After several minutes, he found the receipt.
It was dated three years earlier.
My mother had delivered six documents, including an invoice from Northbridge Trading and a separate authorization page bearing a signature that she disputed.
The receipt listed every item.
Andrés had signed beneath the description.
His initials were next to the words received and recorded, not approved or verified.
He turned the page toward us.
“I did not certify the authenticity of the invoice. I certified that I had received it from your mother.”
Camila examined the record.
“Why didn't you retain the originals?”
“Because your mother asked me to return them to her. I retained the inventory and copies of the relevant correspondence.”
I let out a slow breath.
The photograph Brenda had sent was real, but the meaning she attached to it was misleading.
Someone had taken a genuine note and used it to imply that Andrés had approved a false invoice.
The distinction mattered.
It also frightened me.
Brenda knew enough about my mother's records to manipulate the context.
She understood that I was desperate for answers.
And she was willing to use my grief as leverage.
Andrés handed us a second folder.
“There is something else I should show you.”
Inside was a letter my mother had sent him approximately three months before she died.
She had written that she believed someone had been using my identity to establish financial accounts. She specifically mentioned that an unidentified person had asked her for a copy of my signature.
Andrés had advised her to preserve the documents, contact the relevant institutions, and avoid confronting anyone without a clear plan.
But the letter contained a detail that made Camila stop reading.
My mother had written that she had discovered an attempted registration involving the apartment.
The application had not been completed.
Its supporting documents were inconsistent, and the registration had been suspended pending verification.
“Who submitted it?” I asked.
Andrés checked the final page.
“The applicant listed was BV Financial Services.”
I closed my eyes.
Iván had attempted to connect my apartment to his company years before I knew the company existed.
The application had been rejected or suspended, but that did not mean he had abandoned the plan.
“Was my signature on it?”
“Yes.”
“Did I sign it?”
“No,” Andrés replied. “Your mother told me that you denied signing the document. I recorded that statement in the file.”
“Did she report it?”
“She intended to. But she wanted to gather the supporting documents first.”
“What happened next?”
Andrés hesitated.
“She received a warning.”
“From whom?”
“I don't know.”
I remembered the audio recording.
You could lose more than money.
My mother's voice.
Iván's quiet threat.
I gripped the edge of the desk.
“Did you ever contact the police?”
“I did not submit a criminal complaint because I could not independently establish who had altered the documents. I preserved the records and advised your mother to seek assistance if she believed she was in immediate danger.”
He looked at me with something that might have been regret.
“I have wondered for years whether I should have done more.”
I couldn't comfort him.
I didn't have the energy to tell him that he had done enough, because I wasn't certain that he had.
But I could no longer treat him as the primary suspect simply because Brenda had sent me a cropped photograph.
Camila requested copies of the records and documented how we obtained them.
Before we left, Andrés handed me a small envelope.
“Your mother gave me this separately. She asked me to return it to you if her concerns ever became relevant.”
Inside was a photograph of my mother standing beside the apartment's front door.
She was smiling.
On the back, she had written:
This home is yours, Alejandra. Never let anyone convince you that love requires surrendering every piece of yourself.
I held the photograph against my chest.
For a few seconds, I was no longer an exhausted woman hiding at a friend's apartment. I was a daughter remembering the person who had taught her to read, to balance an account, and to stand upright when someone tried to make her feel small.
Then my phone rang.
It was the police officer handling my assault report.
“Ms. Vega, we need to ask you about a document recovered during a separate inquiry.”
“What document?”
“A property-related agreement bearing your signature. It appears to have been prepared before the disputed loan application.”
“Where was it recovered?”
“At an office associated with Meridian Asset Group.”
I gripped the phone.
“Was it authentic?”
“We haven't established that yet. But it contains a clause that may be relevant to your report.”
“What clause?”
The officer took a breath.
“It appears to authorize the transfer of your apartment to a company controlled by your husband.”
I stared at Camila.
“When?”
“Four months before your mother's death.”
Four months.
The same period when my mother had begun collecting evidence.
The same period when Iván had started hiding his phone calls.
The same period when he was still kissing my forehead and telling me that everything he did was for our future.
And now I knew what that future had looked like to him.
An apartment he didn't own.
May you like
A wife whose name he could use.
And a signature he believed nobody would question.
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