Henderson took far too long to reply to me. “He appears in three different files, not always physically acting, but always present during the intimidation,” the agent explained.
“Present.” That word hurt me more than I ever expected it would.
Brian had always been like that: present when they took me to the room, present when they turned off my phone, and present when his father spoke about me as if I were a mere legal formality. He was present, but he was a spineless coward.
That night, Martha asked to meet me at a small, quiet café near the river. I was accompanied by undercover agents who kept a very low profile.
When I saw her, I almost didn’t recognize her. The elegant woman who used to correct the way I folded my napkins was now completely hunched over, with dark circles under her eyes and violently trembling hands.
“I was the one who sent those anonymous videos to your phone,” she said as soon as she sat down at the table.
I didn’t answer her, waiting for more. “After the first time you fell asleep, I became deeply suspicious,” she confessed.
“I saw Ernesto and Brian talking in hushed tones, and one night I checked my husband’s private laptop and found such horrible things,” she added.
“And yet, you still let me go back to that house week after week?” I asked, my voice cold.
