PART 5 — “The Dead Man Who Left Fingerprints”
I couldn't speak.
Diego repeated the name.
“Mateo Herrera.”
His brother.
The man he believed had died twenty years earlier.
“That isn't possible.”
“I know.”
“Then the DNA is wrong.”
“It's been tested twice.”
I stared at him.
“Maybe someone stole his records.”
“Maybe.”
“But?”
Diego's eyes hardened.
“But there's more.”
He opened the case file.
“Mariana had his DNA under her fingernails.”
“Meaning she fought him.”
“Yes.”
I remembered Veronica's words.
He didn't do it alone.
“Cristóbal and Mateo.”
Diego nodded.
“That is what we're looking at.”
“But your brother died.”
“According to the records.”
“What really happened?”
Diego sat down.
“I was twenty-four when Mateo disappeared.”
He stared at the floor.
“He was involved with organized financial crimes. I confronted him. He told me he wanted out.”
“What happened?”
“He disappeared.”
“And your family?”
“They received a death certificate six months later.”
I looked at him.
“Did you see the body?”
“No.”
The room suddenly felt colder.
“Then maybe he never died.”
Diego didn't answer.
My phone vibrated.
A message.
From an unknown number.
“You should have stopped at the funeral.”
Then another.
“Now you know too much.”
I showed Diego.
His expression changed.
“Turn off your phone.”
“Why?”
“Because they may be tracking it.”
We moved to a secure police office.
For hours, investigators reconstructed Mariana's final days.
The evidence was becoming terrifying.
She had withdrawn money.
Copied documents.
Visited the toxicology clinic.
Met Mateo.
And secretly recorded conversations.
But the recordings were missing.
Then one detective found something.
A cloud backup.
Mariana had uploaded twelve audio files.
The first recording was mostly silence.
Then her voice.
“I'm recording this because if anything happens to me, I need someone to know the truth.”
My hands trembled.
A man's voice answered.
Cristóbal.
“You don't understand what you're dealing with.”
Mariana:
“I understand enough.”
Cristóbal:
“You found the accounts.”
“Yes.”
“You should forget them.”
“I can't.”
“Mariana…”
“I know where the money is going.”
Silence.
Then Cristóbal said something that made my blood freeze.
“You're asking questions about people who don't exist.”
Mariana whispered:
“Mateo exists.”
A chair scraped.
Cristóbal's voice became angry.
“Don't say that name.”
The recording ended.
The second file was worse.
Mariana was crying.
“Mom, if you're hearing this, please forgive me.”
Then another voice entered.
A man.
Low.
Cold.
“Your mother won't be able to save you.”
Mariana:
“Who are you?”
The man laughed.
“You know who I am.”
Then the recording ended.
Diego replayed it.
His face had gone pale.
“That's Mateo.”
“You recognize his voice?”
“I'd recognize it anywhere.”
We listened to the third recording.
This time Mariana was speaking to someone else.
A woman.
“I need your help.”
The woman replied:
“If they find out I helped you, they'll kill me.”
“Then help me anyway.”
“Why?”
“Because my daughter is next.”
The woman began crying.
“I can't.”
“You promised.”
“I know.”
“Then tell me where the files are.”
The recording ended.
Diego stared at me.
“Who was the woman?”
“We need to identify her.”
A detective entered.
“We may have.”
He handed Diego a photograph.
It showed a woman leaving a restaurant.
I recognized her immediately.
“That's Cristóbal's sister.”
Diego nodded.
“Lucía Ortega.”
“Why would she help Mariana?”
“We're about to find out.”
We located Lucía that evening.
She lived alone in a small apartment.
When she opened the door and saw Diego, she immediately began crying.
“You found me.”
“What happened?” I asked.
She looked at me.
“Mariana was supposed to survive.”
My heart stopped.
“What do you mean?”
Lucía stepped aside.
“Come in.”
Her apartment was filled with boxes.
She had been preparing to leave.
“I knew Cristóbal was stealing money,” she whispered.
“From whom?”
“From investors.”
“How much?”
“Millions.”
“And Mateo?”
Lucía looked at Diego.
“He wasn't working for Cristóbal.”
Diego frowned.
“Then who was he working for?”
Lucía hesitated.
“The person above them.”
“Who?”
She opened a drawer and removed a photograph.
It showed several men standing outside a luxury estate.
At the center stood an older man.
My blood turned cold.
I knew him.
Everyone in our city knew him.
A respected businessman.
A philanthropist.
A man who had attended Mariana's funeral.
A man who had personally embraced Cristóbal and offered condolences.
I whispered his name.
“Rafael Montenegro.”
Lucía nodded.
“He ordered Mariana's death.”
Diego stared at the photograph.
“Why?”
Lucía's eyes filled with tears.
“Because Mariana discovered that the money wasn't being stolen.”
“What was it being used for?”
Lucía looked at me.
“To pay people.”
“People for what?”
She lowered her voice.
“To make certain people disappear.”
Silence.
Then she added:
“Your husband discovered it years ago.”
I felt dizzy.
“My husband?”
“He tried to expose Rafael.”
“That's why he died.”
Lucía nodded.
“But Mariana found the original records.”
“Where?”
She looked toward the door.
Then her face changed.
Someone was standing outside.
A shadow passed beneath the gap.
Lucía whispered:
“They found us.”
The door handle slowly turned.
Diego reached for his weapon.
Lucía backed away.
And then a man's voice came through the door.
Calm.
Familiar.
“Teresa…”
I froze.
It was Cristóbal.
“You've been looking in the wrong place.”
The door opened.
But Cristóbal wasn't alone.
Behind him stood a man with gray hair.
A silver watch.
And a face that Diego hadn't seen in twenty years.
Mateo Herrera.
Diego's dead brother.
Mateo smiled.
Then he looked directly at me.
“Your daughter wasn't supposed to die.”
He paused.
“You were.”
