It wasn’t just a theatrical line; it was a decision. I stepped away from the wall and opened a folder on my phone. For years, for security reasons, I’d kept automatic backups of everything: location, routes, and car logs. I also had the vehicle’s app, installed by the garage, which synced who used it and at what time.
“What proof are you going to have?” Lucia mocked.
—Enough so that you don’t burden me with your fear—I replied.
First, I showed her the unlock and lock log: the exact time the car left and returned, linked to the key fob she was carrying. Then, the GPS route: departure from our street, passing through the port avenue, and entering the roundabout. One point marked a sudden stop. After that, the direct return home.
My mother shook her head as if that would erase the data.
“You’ve manipulated that,” he said. “You’ve always been weird about cell phones.”
My father, in a low voice, asked:
—Son… what is all this?
I opened the gallery and showed a photo of the bumper: paint peeled off and a blue reflective fiber caught on the edge. I also pointed to Lucía’s bag on the sofa; a parking ticket from a nearby parking lot was sticking out, with the time and part of the license plate number. I didn’t say it as an accusation, but as a fact.
“Lucía,” I said, “this isn’t about saving you. It’s about not sinking me.”
