Date. Time. The back parking lot of the building where Julián Enríquez was killed.
A black sedan was visible.
Julian could be seen getting off the bike.
A man wearing a cap was seen approaching.
It wasn’t Matthew.
I didn’t have his body, nor his way of walking.
And when the killer raised his face for a second towards the camera, the entire courtroom let out a muffled murmur.
It was Bruno Salvatierra.
Vicente Aranda’s head of security.
Bruno was shooting.
Julian was falling.
And then, in the same recording, another figure appeared entering from the side two minutes later.
Matthew.
Arriving late.
In a hurry.
Desperate.
Too late to save anyone.
Too soon for them to pin the blame on him.
“My God…” someone in the back row blurted out.
The prosecutor stood up.
—Your Honor, I request the immediate suspension of the sentence, the preventive detention of Mr. Vicente Aranda, and the opening of an investigation for fabrication of evidence, bribery, aggravated homicide, and criminal association.
Vicente smiled again.
But it was no longer the confident smile it once was.
It was something broken.
Desperate.
“And they’re going to base everything on a planted memory?” he spat. “On a video that anyone can edit?”
Then a third voice was heard in the following audio.
A male voice.
Trembling.
—If you’re hearing this, it’s probably because I’m already dead.
Nobody moved.
“My name is Tomás Vera. I’ve been Vicente Aranda’s personal driver for nine years. I recorded this because I saw him order the murder of Mr. Enríquez and frame Mateo Santos. I also saw him bribe Inspector Ledesma and witness Cifuentes. If anything happens to me, look for the red ledger in the service department at the house in Valle Escondido. It contains the dates, amounts, and names.”
Clara opened her eyes violently.
“Tomás…” she whispered.
Mateo turned towards her.
—Do you know him?
Clara took a while to respond.
Too much.
—He was… he was the driver who followed me twice when I went to the hospital in my last months of pregnancy.
Mateo felt a cold lash in his chest.
—And you never told me?
—I thought I was being paranoid. I thought it was because of the trial. Mateo, I swear I thought it was just my fear.
Vicente let out a short, ugly laugh.
—Yes. Poor Tomás. A sentimental idiot.
“Where is he?” the judge asked.
Vicente did not respond.
It wasn’t necessary.
The expression on her face said it all.
Dead.
Probably dead.
The judge was about to order the arrest when everything exploded.
Vicente pushed the lawyer next to him and lunged at Clara.
Not against Matthew.
Against Clara.
Against the baby.
It was so fast that several people took a while to understand it.
I loved Leo.
Or I wanted to use it to go out.
Matthew roared.
Even handcuffed, he threw himself sideways and thrust his shoulder into Vicente’s abdomen before he could touch the child. They both fell against the side table. The laptop flew to the floor. Clara screamed and pressed herself against the wall, clutching her son.
The guards ran.
Vicente finally took something out of his pocket.
It wasn’t a phone.
It was a small pocket pistol.
The room erupted in panic.
A gunshot ripped through the air.
The bullet became embedded in the wooden platform.
The judge bent down.
People screaming.
Chairs falling.
Journalists throwing themselves to the ground.
And Mateo was on top of Vicente, locking his wrist with the handcuffs as if his life depended on it.
Because it suited him.
“Let her go!” roared Vicente, beside himself.
“Never!” Mateo spat.
There was a brutal second one.
A struggle.
Another shot.
This time the body that shook was not Matthew’s.
It was Vicente’s.
He remained still.
With eyes open.
Surprised.
As if he couldn’t believe that the ending didn’t follow his plans.
Behind him stood the security officer at the door, her service weapon still raised and her hands trembling.
Nobody spoke.
Nobody moved.
Until Leo broke the silence with a sharp, clear, lively cry.
That cry brought the world back.
The guards subdued Bruno Salvatierra, who had just appeared at the side entrance and had tried to flee upon hearing the gunshots.
The prosecutor ordered immediate arrests.
The judge suspended the hearing.
And Mateo, still on the ground, with his suit stained, his lips cracked and his breathing ragged, just stared at Clara and the baby.
As if he still didn’t dare to believe they were still there.
As if he still didn’t know if he was awake.
