Second, I had not returned that day as scheduled.
I had come back two days early.
That night, I did not cry in front of them. I let my mother talk about burial arrangements. I let Rodrigo accept condolences as if he owned my grief. I listened as they discussed closing the coffin quickly, holding a private funeral, and “not prolonging the pain.”
Then I locked myself inside my father’s old office and turned on the green desk lamp.
The safe was still hidden behind my grandfather’s portrait, exactly where Teresa believed no one had looked in years.
Inside was the power of attorney Camila and I had prepared. If she died under suspicious circumstances, I would become sole administrator of her assets, her shares, and any investigation connected to her death.
Camila had not trusted my family.
Neither had I.
Before our wedding, my mother had tried to convince me to give up my grandfather’s inheritance. Rodrigo wanted to sell the vineyards to a foreign group. Camila had found false invoices, hidden transfers, and signatures no one could explain.
