Accidents.
Insurance.
Processes.
But that surname in the file was no longer a distant coincidence.
Now he was going right through it.
“I need that file,” he said.
He asked for it in such a controlled voice that the prosecutor knew another dangerous door had just been opened.
In less than an hour, his lawyers sent him the documentation.
Julian Torres.
Thirty-two years old.
Driver.
Accident in loading yard.
Compensation approved, but withheld due to inconsistencies in guardianship and beneficiaries.
Transfer not completed.
File frozen.
And, as the main contact for “family support”, there was a name that made Alejandro clench his jaw.
Ricardo Morales.
The supermarket manager.
The same man who had mocked Lucia while she begged for milk.
He was not just a manager.
He was also listed as an external manager of a “social support” foundation that outsourced procedures for vulnerable families linked to the company.
Alejandro read the document twice.
Then a third one.
Each line made the previous night dirtier.
Ricardo had been close to Mariana’s file.
Ricardo knew who the family was.
Ricardo knew about the husband’s death.
Ricardo knew there were small children.
And yet he humiliated her.
Or worse.
Perhaps he recognized her.
Perhaps he enjoyed recognizing her.
Alejandro called his legal director.
—I want a full audit of the foundation and that file. Today.
—Sir, is there a specific problem?
—Yes. I think I have a network of vultures getting paid to get close to misery using my last name.
The voice on the other end faded away.
-Understood.
At midday, the police located Ramiro trying to leave the neighborhood with a backpack and documents.
But he wasn’t alone.
She was carrying one of the twins in her arms.
And the other one, according to the neighbor, he had left “in charge” of a woman no one knew.
The news hit like a knife.
Lucia became hysterical.
Mariana tried to pull out the train tracks.
The hospital was abuzz with tension.
Alejandro took charge.
He didn’t scream.
He didn’t run.
He just started moving pieces with the precision with which others manage a war.
He called the state security secretary, a longtime ally of an investment group.
He asked for priority.
Subject description.
Vehicles.
Possible exits.
Cameras.
Meanwhile, his lawyers located the address of the woman Ramiro frequented when he disappeared for days on end.
A colony on the other side of the city.
The police were deployed.
But Alejandro didn’t just wait for reports.
It was him.
Not on impulse.
For something worse.
Out of necessity.
For years I had delegated almost everything to others.
This time I couldn’t.
He arrived with two units patrolling the area.
The house was a makeshift structure with curtains instead of doors.
There they found the second twin, lying in a bed, dehydrated and with a fever.
The woman said that Ramiro had offered her money to “look after the child for a few hours.”
Alejandro left there with the baby wrapped in his sack, feeling an unbearable weight in his arms.
It wasn’t just the child.
It was the certainty of how many times a misfortune can grow while everyone looks the other way.
The other one was missing.
And Ramiro was missing.
They located him an hour later at an old terminal, trying to board a bus.
The twin was crying.
