“Your grandmother couldn’t even save her house. You really think she saved you?”
Something inside me went out. Or maybe it lit up.
I put the booklet in my bag and walked toward the cemetery exit.
Diego blocked my path.
I looked at the rusty gate and the wet street beyond it.
“To the bank.”
He watched me as if he had just seen a match fall onto gasoline.
An hour later, soaked from the rain, I walked into the Banco del Bajío branch in downtown Querétaro. The teller, a woman with glasses named Maribel, opened the booklet, read my full name, and turned white.
Then she picked up the phone with a trembling hand.
“Call the police,” she told another employee. “And lock the door. The young lady cannot leave.”
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