Then Julián said something that changed the air in the room.
“But money is not the main reason for this video.”
The screen changed. Bank transfers appeared. Printed messages. Photographs of private meetings at a casino in Monterrey. Contracts with forged signatures.
“Mother, Fernanda… for two years, you diverted money from the foundation I created for children with cancer. Thirty-eight million pesos used for gambling debts, trips, jewelry, and political favors.”
The church erupted into shocked whispers. A woman crossed herself. A businessman pulled out his phone. Someone said aloud,
“How shameful.”
Doña Teresa stepped back.
“That is a lie! My son was mentally unstable!”
Julián continued, calm and merciless.
“No, Mother. I was not the sick one. I simply realized too late how far you were willing to go.”
A chill moved through my entire body.
Arturo signaled with his hand. One of the people who had entered with him closed the church doors from the inside.
Doña Teresa noticed immediately.
“Why are they closing the doors? What does this mean?”
No one answered.
The screen now showed a nighttime recording from the garage of our house in Las Lomas. The date appeared in the corner: three days before the accident.
The image was black and white, but it was clear enough. A woman in a dark coat, wearing gloves and carrying a large bag, entered the garage. She walked directly toward Julián’s car.
My heart began pounding.
The woman crouched beside the vehicle.
Fernanda began crying silently.
“No…” she whispered.
Doña Teresa snapped toward her.
“Be quiet!”
But it was too late.
On the screen, the woman lifted her face toward a camera she had not known existed.
It was Doña Teresa.
Julián appeared again.
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