The principal turned the laptop screen toward the room. The video continued. We saw Aunt Patricia take a thick white envelope from Mrs. Rebeca—not the yellow one my father had rejected, but another.
“Valeria’s parents are stubborn,” Patricia’s recorded voice hissed on the speakers. “But she’s just a child. She drinks what I give her. She trusts me. By the end of the month, there won’t be a ‘problem’ for Mateo to worry about.”
My father let out a sound that wasn’t human—a low, guttural growl of pure agony. He lunged toward Patricia, but the school counselor and the security guard, who had been waiting outside, stepped in.
“Don’t touch her, Mr. Gomez,” the principal warned. “The police are already on their way. We called them ten minutes ago.”
Mrs. Rebeca Rivas finally lost her composure. The designer bag slipped from her shoulder, hitting the floor with a dull thud. “This is a setup! That video is doctored! My son is a minor, you can’t use this!”
“Actually,” the principal replied calmly, “your son is eighteen. He stayed back a year, remember? And since he is an adult, and this video suggests a conspiracy to commit a crime against a minor—Valeria—the law is very clear.”
