Chapter 7 - THE CAR ON THE MAP
The blue location dot moved one block at a time.
I watched it glide across the screen.
My old phone was inside my car.
Or at least inside a vehicle moving along the same route.
Dad stood behind my chair.
Mom sat across from me holding a mug she had forgotten to drink from.
"Who has the car?" she asked.
"Luis had the keys when we left."
Dad looked at the clock.
11:52 p.m.
"Do not go after it."
I had not realized I was already pushing back my chair.
"But the phone is there."
"Which means someone may be destroying evidence right now."
"Exactly."
"And chasing them at midnight accomplishes what?"
I stared at him.
He was right again.
I hated how often fear wanted me to do something simply because doing nothing felt unbearable.
Dad took screenshots of the location map at one-minute intervals.
Mom wrote the times in a notebook.
The dot turned off Avenida Universidad and headed toward the industrial district near Escobedo.
I frowned.
"Why would Luis go there?"
Dad's eyes narrowed.
"Do you know anyone in that area?"
"No."
He zoomed out.
The dot continued north.
Then it stopped.
A warehouse district.
The address marker showed Calle Acero 214.
Dad went completely still.
"What?"
"I know that address."
My stomach tightened.
"From where?"
He sat beside me.
"A contractor registry."
Mom put down the mug.
"Arturo."
He nodded slowly.
"Ernesto's company lists a storage facility on Calle Acero."
I looked at the screen again.
"You said his contract application had nothing to do with this."
"It doesn't."
"Then why is my car at his warehouse?"
"I don't know."
Dad's voice hardened.
"And I am not going to guess."
The location dot disappeared three minutes later.
DEVICE OFFLINE.
I stared at the words.
"They turned it off."
"Or removed the battery connection."
"Can we call Ernesto?"
Dad shook his head.
"Not tonight."
"Why not?"
"Because if something improper is happening, warning everyone what we can see gives them time to clean it up."
He closed the laptop.
"We preserve the screenshots and sleep."
I laughed bitterly.
"Sleep?"
"Try."
I did not.
At 1:13 a.m., Luis sent me nineteen messages.
At 1:20, he called.
At 1:21, he called again.
At 1:23, Rosa called from a different number.
I turned the phone face down.
Dad did not tell me to block anyone.
"Keep the messages," he said.
"You may want the record."
The next morning, Mateo woke before six.
For three beautiful seconds, I forgot where I was.
Then I saw the walking boot beside the couch and remembered everything.
Mom took Mateo while I showered.
Dad had already printed the bank fraud case, the lender complaint, the screenshots of the second phone, and photographs of the burned application.
He arranged them in a plain manila folder.
"We're going to the bank first."
"Then?"
"Then you decide whether you want to make a formal report about the identity use."
I stared at the folder.
"Do you think I should?"
"Yes."
His answer came without hesitation.
"But it has to be your decision."
"What if it destroys my marriage?"
Dad sat across from me.
"Camila, your marriage is not a vase sitting safely on a shelf while you decide whether to knock it over."
He tapped the folder lightly.
"It is already on the floor."
I looked down.
"That doesn't mean it can't be repaired."
"No."
His voice softened.
"But repair requires the person who broke it to stop pretending the pieces are your fault."
At the bank, the fraud specialist confirmed the transfer had been stopped before settlement.
Ninety-six thousand pesos remained in my account.
I nearly cried from relief.
Then she showed me something worse.
There had been three previous transfers over the last two months.
Twenty-two thousand.
Eighteen thousand five hundred.
Thirty-one thousand.
All sent to accounts I did not recognize.
My stomach dropped.
"How did I miss those?"
The specialist turned her monitor toward me.
"The transaction notifications were changed to a secondary email address."
"What address?"
She read it aloud.
It used my name with one extra letter.
A fake address.
My old phone had been receiving the verification codes.
Dad sat beside me with both hands flat on his knees.
"Can she dispute the earlier transfers?"
"We can open investigations."
The specialist looked at me.
"Were these authorized by your spouse?"
"I don't know."
The answer tasted awful.
I had reached the stage where I could not say what my husband was capable of.
The specialist printed the transactions.
One destination account belonged to an online payment processor.
One belonged to an individual named Sergio Villalobos.
The third belonged to a company.
Salazar Norte Servicios Integrales.
I closed my eyes.
"Of course."
Dad leaned toward the page.
"How much went to the company?"
"Thirty-one thousand."
I added the numbers in my head.
Seventy-one thousand five hundred pesos had already disappeared before the ninety-six-thousand-peso transfer.
That was more than four months of rent at our old apartment.
More than a year of Mateo's daycare.
Money I thought we still had.
Money Luis knew was gone every time he watched me calculate grocery prices.
I remembered putting back a package of chicken because Rosa said I spent too much.
I remembered reusing nursing shoes until the soles separated.
I remembered apologizing for buying Mateo a humidifier when he was sick.
Luis had watched all of it while money moved out of my account.
Something inside me hardened.
"Open every dispute."
The specialist nodded.
"We will."
I signed the forms with my real signature.
Each one felt like reclaiming my name.
Outside the bank, I finally checked Luis's messages.
The first ten were apologies.
The next four blamed stress.
Then he blamed his mother.
Then he blamed me for involving Dad.
The last message was different.
CAMILA, YOU NEED TO CALL ME BEFORE YOU DO ANYTHING WITH THE POLICE.
I showed Dad.
"Why?"
"Ask him."
I called on speaker.
Luis answered before the first ring finished.
"Thank God."
"Why don't you want me to make a report?"
Silence.
"Luis."
"Because it'll make everything worse."
"For who?"
"For everybody."
"That means nothing."
He exhaled sharply.
"My mom moved the phone last night."
"In my car?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"She wanted to get rid of it."
"Where is it?"
"I don't know."
"Where is my car?"
Another pause.
"At my dad's warehouse."
I closed my eyes.
"Why?"
"Because Mom said you might try to take it."
"I pay for it."
"It's in my name."
"Where are the keys now?"
"With me."
Dad spoke for the first time.
"Luis, did your mother destroy Camila's old phone?"
Luis went silent.
"Luis?"
"I don't think so."
"That wasn't the question."
"She gave it to someone."
My skin prickled.
"Who?"
"Sergio."
I looked down at the bank papers.
Sergio Villalobos.
The recipient of one of my missing transfers.
"Who is Sergio?"
Luis's voice became very quiet.
"The private lender's collector."
Dad's expression changed.
"Why would your mother give him a phone containing Camila's identity information?"
"Because he said he could make the loan problem disappear."
"How?"
"I don't know."
"Where is Sergio now?"
"I don't know."
"Where did he meet her?"
Luis swallowed audibly.
"At the warehouse."
Dad looked at me.
His face was calm, but something underneath it had turned dangerous.
Not dangerous because he wanted violence.
Dangerous because he had reached certainty.
"Camila," he said quietly, "we're making the report."
Before I could answer, Luis rushed his next words.
"Wait."
"What?"
"There's something else at the warehouse."
Dad's eyes narrowed.
"What?"
Luis took a breath.
"Boxes of meters."
Dad's entire body went still.
"What kind of meters?"
"CFE meters."
I looked at my father.
Dad leaned against the counter and asked Luis one more question.
"Were the boxes sealed?"
"Yes."
"Any labels?"
"Some had utility markings."
"Did you ever open one?"
"No."
"Did your mother?"
"I don't know."
Dad closed his eyes for a second.
Then he looked at me.
"This is where your case and my work overlap. From this point, I have to be careful."
I felt panic rise.
"Careful meaning what?"
"Meaning I can still be your father. I cannot become the investigator on anything touching my department."
"But you know what those meters could mean."
"I know enough to report the information and step aside."
I hated hearing that.
I wanted the most powerful version of my father to take over.
Instead he chose the most restrained version of himself.
May you like
Only later would I understand that restraint was what protected both of us.
For the first time since he had found me on the road, he looked genuinely shocked.
