Over the past year, there had been dozens of transfers to an account I didn’t recognize. Some were small. Some weren’t. Together, they added up to nearly half of my savings. There was also a credit line I had never opened, taken out against the house, with my electronic signature on it.
The receiving account was in the name of Elvira Montes.
I’d always known her as Elvira Ruiz.
At six the next morning, I called my oldest friend, Javier Ramírez, a lawyer who had handled my business contracts for fifteen years. I told him everything. He was quiet for a long time.
“Don’t touch anything else,” he said finally. “Photograph every page of that binder, put it back exactly where you found it, and meet me at my office in an hour. Bring Sofia. Don’t leave her alone in that house.”
By noon, Javier had a forensic accountant reviewing my statements and a contact at the state prosecutor’s office looking into the name Elvira Montes.
