If she wanted to get out of that story alive, the hardest part was just about to begin.
PART 3
I filed the complaint that same day.
Attorney Salgado insisted on taking the case to a central prosecutor’s office, not the local ministry, because with such evidence, he couldn’t afford for someone to misplace it. I handed over screenshots, dates, names—everything. An expert later confirmed that the messages had indeed come from Rodrigo’s phone and that Marcos existed: his name was Marcos Rivera, he had a record for fraud, and he had been investigated before for shady dealings with insurance policies and properties.
For weeks I lived hidden in my empty apartment in Narvarte. I changed the locks, lowered the blinds, stopped posting anything on social media, and learned to answer Rodrigo’s calls with the coldest voice I could muster.
First he feigned concern.
—Sofi, you’re exaggerating. Come here and we’ll talk.
Then he got angry.
—Don’t make me look bad in front of people.
Then he moved on to blackmail.
—My mom is devastated. Your mom doesn’t understand anything. Are you really going to ruin everything because of paranoia?
That sentence finally opened my eyes: for him, the serious thing wasn’t that I had discovered a plot to kill me. The serious thing was the scandal.
When he was arrested, he was in his office.
Marcos was caught the same day.
I thought I would feel immediate relief, but no. What I felt was exhaustion. A brutal, old exhaustion, as if I had aged suddenly in less than a month.
