PART 2
Julián’s image filled the screen in front of the altar.
It was not a conventional farewell video. There was no soft music, no family slideshow, no gentle memories. Julián was seated in his office, wearing the same blue shirt he had worn two days before his death. His face looked tired, his eyes shadowed, but his gaze was unwavering.
“If you are watching this,” he said, “it means I did not make it alive to my own funeral.”
A heavy silence fell over the church.
I pressed a hand over my mouth. Seeing him so near and so unreachable at the same time shattered something inside me.
In the recording, Julián drew a slow breath.
“First, I want to speak to my wife, Mariana. My love, forgive me for not telling you everything. I did not want to frighten you. But for weeks, I knew something was wrong.”
Doña Teresa pressed her lips together. Fernanda’s smile disappeared.
“Our son is mine,” Julián continued. “I have three paternity tests from three different laboratories, all with legal certification and signed before a notary.”
Stamped documents, dates, and signatures filled the screen.
The test Doña Teresa had thrown onto the coffin was exposed for exactly what it was: a fabrication.
Murmuring spread through the church in waves of anger.
Doña Teresa raised her voice.
“That can be forged! This is manipulation!”
Arturo did not move.
“The video continues.”
Julián looked directly into the camera.
“I leave my son my last name, my assets, and every share I built through my work. Everything is protected in an irrevocable trust under Mariana’s name and the baby’s name. No one can touch it. Not my mother. Not my sister. Not any partner they managed to buy.”
Fernanda released my wedding ring as though it had burned her. It struck the marble floor with a small sound that, inside that church, felt like thunder.
I could not bend to retrieve it. My legs would not move.
Then Julián said something that changed the air in the room entirely.
“But money is not the main reason for this video.”
The screen shifted. Bank transfers appeared. Printed messages. Photographs of private meetings at a casino in Monterrey. Contracts bearing forged signatures.
“Mother, Fernanda — for two years, you diverted money from the foundation I created for children with cancer. Thirty-eight million pesos used for gambling debts, travel, jewelry, and political favors.”
The church erupted. A woman crossed herself. A businessman reached for his phone. Someone said aloud,
“How shameful.”
Doña Teresa stepped back.
“That is a lie! My son was mentally unstable!”
Julián continued, calm and unyielding.
“No, Mother. I was not the sick one. I simply realized too late how far you were willing to go.”
A chill moved through my body.
Arturo gave a signal. One of the people who had entered with him closed the church doors from inside.
Doña Teresa noticed immediately.
“Why are they closing the doors? What does this mean?”
No one answered.
The screen now showed a nighttime recording from the garage of our home in Las Lomas. The date appeared in the corner: three days before the accident.
The image was black and white, but perfectly clear. A woman in a dark coat, wearing gloves, entered the garage carrying a large bag. She walked directly toward Julián’s car.
My heart began hammering.
The woman crouched beside the vehicle.
Fernanda began to cry silently.
“No…” she whispered.
Doña Teresa turned on her sharply.
“Be quiet!”
But it was too late.
On the screen, the woman lifted her face toward a camera she had not known existed.
It was Doña Teresa.
Julián’s voice returned.
“I had my car checked because I found fluid beneath the brake pedal. At first, I thought it was a mechanical issue. Then I discovered someone had interfered with the system. That night, I installed additional cameras.”
The floor seemed to vanish beneath me.
My husband had not died in an accident.
In the recording, Julián swallowed before continuing.
“If I die, it will not be because of the road. It will be because someone decided my life was worth less than an inheritance.”
Doña Teresa screamed.
“Turn that off!”
But Arturo raised his hand and spoke with absolute authority.
“There is still one final part.”
The screen returned, and Julián said the sentence that made even the priest lower his eyes.
“And now everyone will hear the call where my own mother ordered my death.”
