I lived in Guadalajara, working as an accountant, so the house sat empty—until my aunt called, sobbing. My cousin Paolo was about to marry, but the bride’s family demanded proof he “owned a home.”
So I did what I always do when family asks. I caved.
“Paolo… you can stay in my parents’ house.”
He thanked me like I’d saved his life. His fiancée, Jenny, smiled sweetly. Back then, it looked like gratitude.
It wasn’t. It was a claim being planted.
Part 2 — The Locks Changed, and So Did the Tone
A year later, I showed up unannounced in the village. My key didn’t work.
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