Oscar sighed and ran a hand through his thinning hair.
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“Buddy, if it were just your mother-in-law spending money on bingo or expensive medicine, I’d tell you to leave it alone. But this…” He gestured to the crumpled papers on the table. “Multiple depositors. Immediate withdrawals to shell accounts. Fake names on the phone lines. This reeks of organized fraud. And if your name’s on it, putting money in every month, when the bomb explodes, the prosecutor’s office isn’t going to ask if you did it out of love for your late wife. They’re going to take you down.”
The mention of the prosecution was like a bucket of ice water. Joaquín thought about Camila. About who would braid her hair if he wasn’t there. About who would explain to her why her father was in jail for financing who knows what.
—Thank you, Oscar—he murmured, putting the card in his work shirt pocket, right over his heart.
When his friend left, the silence in the house felt oppressive. It was eight in the morning. He had to go to work; he had an installation pending at an office in San Pedro, a well-paying job he couldn’t afford to lose. But the engine of his life seemed to have broken down.
