— Pencils. The books. The table for Mia… was it all because of Diego?
– In the beginning, probably. Then they were for Mia.
I don’t want your pity.
– I know.
I don’t want money to forget.
Victor raises his eyes.
I won’t even ask you to.
That evening I left with a copy of the documents that Victor could legally offer me and with the name of the lawyer who represented the company during the accident. I did not accept his explanation as an absolute truth. I independently consulted a lawyer and asked for help to understand the old file of the accident.
Months of checks followed.
Some of Diego’s suspicions were confirmed: there had been trade irregularities and problematic documents related to certain materials. Other things remained impossible to prove with certainty after two years. Experts didn’t promise me the simple answer I wanted.
Victor was not the man who had killed my husband.
But he was the man who hadn’t listened to him when Diego had tried to sound the alarm.
And Victor himself was no longer trying to run away from that difference.
One afternoon, he called me into the office.
He sat at her little table and drew a purple rabbit.
“I want to do something for you,” Victor said.
I’m tense.
I don’t want a house and I don’t want money.
I didn’t even want to give you this.
He handed me a folder.
