Chapter 17
The days at Abrigo das Marias had turned into a gray blur of anxiety and silence. My physical wounds were beginning to heal, forming dry scabs that pulled at my skin, but the wound in my soul remained open, bleeding every time the evening news aired on the small tube television in the dining hall.
My face hadn’t appeared on the screen yet, but the name “Vasconcelos” was repeated ad nauseam. Dona Eleonora’s death was the talk of the town. I knew my time was running out. It was like living with an invisible rope tied around my neck, just waiting for someone to pull the lever.
It was late afternoon. The sky over S?o Paulo was beginning to darken, casting a leaden hue over the shelter’s tilting windows. I was in the laundry room in the back, scrubbing sheets in a concrete tub, when I heard hurried footsteps echoing across the slate floor.
My breath caught. My hands, submerged in soapy water, froze.
“Maria Rita?” Célia’s voice rang out from the doorway.
I turned my face slowly, panic tightening my throat. I expected to see uniformed police officers behind her. I expected to see Detective Carvalho with a pair of handcuffs. But Célia was alone, though her expression was one of urgency.
“What’s wrong?” I whispered, wiping my wet hands on my faded sweatshirt. “Did they find me? Are the police here?”
“It’s not the police,” Célia replied, stepping into the laundry room and closing the door behind her. She lowered her voice. “You have a visitor in the administration office.”
I furrowed my brow, confusion battling with dread.
“A visitor? Célia, I don’t know anyone in this town. Did you… did you call someone?”
“Of course not! The shelter is confidential,” she defended herself quickly, shaking her head. “It’s a couple. They arrived in an unassuming car. They said they’re here because of the letter—the letter you asked me to mail.”
The air drained from my lungs. P.O. Box 104. I’d sent that outpouring just a few days ago, in an act of sheer desperation, almost certain that my words would end up in some trash can.
“Did they say who they are?” I asked, feeling my legs tremble.
“They said the lady with the letters sent them. They want to get you out of here, Maria Rita. They said they can help you.”
My flight instinct screamed inside me. The world had taught me the hard way that you shouldn’t trust anyone.
If Eduardo, the man who slept beside me and swore he loved me, was capable of throwing me to the dogs, what would a bunch of strangers do to me?
What if they were detectives hired by the Vasconcelos family in disguise?
What if they were there to turn me in and collect a reward?
“I’m not going.” I took a step back, my back hitting the cold edge of the tank. “It’s a trap. His family must have intercepted the letter. Célia, for God’s sake, tell them to leave!”
“Calm down. Breathe,” Célia said, stepping closer and holding my shoulders firmly but gently.
“I know this support network, Maria. I’ve never seen the face of the person who manages the P.O.
box, but we’ve sheltered women who were saved by them before.
Go there. Talk to them. You’re safe in here; if you don’t like what you hear, I’ll kick them out myself.
But listen to what they have to say. You can’t live hidden away in this laundry tub forever. ”
I knew she was right. If the police conducted a routine raid on the shelter, I’d be lost—and I’d also jeopardize all the other women and Célia’s work.
I forced down the knot in my throat, nodded slowly, and followed her down the dimly lit hallway.
When I reached the administration office door, I hesitated.
I peeked through the crack. A couple was standing there, waiting in silence.
The woman must have been my age, with dark, shoulder-length hair, wearing comfortable, understated clothes.
Her face radiated genuine empathy, without that disgusting look of pity I so often received.
Beside her stood a tall man with a protective demeanor; he wore a leather jacket and had a serious but calm expression.
Neither of them seemed to belong to the snobbish high society that frequented the mansion, but neither did they seem like people in need.
I pushed open the door and stepped inside.
As soon as they saw me, the woman gave a slight smile, easing some of the tension in the room.
“Maria Rita?” she asked in a soft voice, taking a step forward but stopping when she noticed my instinct to step back. “My name is Aline, and this is my husband, Henrique.”
“How did you find me?” I crossed my arms over my chest, staying on the defensive. “What do you want with me?”
Henrique was the one who answered, in a deep, reassuring voice.
“We received a letter this morning from the woman who manages P.O. Box 104. We know who you are, who you married, and what they’re saying on the news.”
Panic rose in my throat again.
“If you’ve come to turn me over to the police or Eduardo, please… leave me alone. I don’t have the money to buy your silence.”
“We don’t want your money, and we’re not going to hand you over to anyone,” Aline interjected, stepping a little closer, her eyes fixed on mine with an intensity that unsettled me. “We’re here to get you out of S?o Paulo safely, before the arrest warrant is issued.”
“Leave S?o Paulo?” My voice faltered. “I can’t! If I run away, they’ll say I confessed! They’ll declare me a fugitive!”
“They’re going to do that anyway,” Henrique argued, crossing his arms. “The Vasconcelos family has bought people’s silence and the stories they want told.
They’ve got the police chief, the forensic team, and the media in their pocket.
Staying here, waiting to be arrested so you can try to prove your innocence in a court they’ve paid for, is suicide, Maria Rita.
You need a place of safety where they can’t reach you. You need time to build your defense.”
I looked from Aline to Henrique, my mind racing.
Trust was like shattered glass in my life.
Getting into the car with two strangers was madness.
But staying there meant simply waiting for the exact moment when the guillotine’s blade would fall on my neck.
And worse: if Eduardo’s investigators discovered that shelter, the consequences for Célia and the other women would be devastating.
The Vasconcelos empire destroyed everything that dared to cross its path.
“Why are you doing this?” I whispered, tears stinging my eyes once more. “You don’t even know me. How do you know I’m not the murderer the newspapers will say I am?”
Ana sighed and pulled something out of her coat pocket. It was my letter. The lined sheet of paper, smudged with my tears, was carefully folded in her hands.
“Because people who kill for money and ambition don’t write asking not to be forgotten.
They run far away with lawyers in tow,” Aline said, her eyes shining with deep understanding.
“We know the ferocity of people like your husband. We’ve been on the other side of that coin, fighting against those who think they can buy the whole world.
We know how to recognize the truth in a woman who’s been discarded. ”
The tone of her voice carried an old scar. I realized, in that instant, that they weren’t heroes for hire. They were survivors.
I closed my eyes. Mental and physical exhaustion were draining me. I had no other choice. If P.O. Box 104 had mobilized to send those people to me, it was the only lifeline I would have before drowning for good.
I opened my eyes and let my arms fall to my sides in a gesture of surrender.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“To our home. Far from downtown S?o Paulo,” Henrique replied, his expression softening. “You’ll have a room, hot meals, and access to lawyers who won’t sell out to your husband’s family. We’re going to fight alongside you, Maria Rita.”
I turned my face toward Célia, who was watching everything from the corner of the room. She smiled, her eyes brimming with tears, and nodded silently.
“Go, Maria. They’re trustworthy,” Célia whispered.
I had no luggage to pack. All I owned in the world was the donated sweatshirt I was wearing and the wedding ring tucked deep in my pocket: the symbol of my downfall.
I said goodbye to Célia with a tight hug—the first sincere hug I’d received since the tragedy. I cried on the shoulder of the woman who had given me a roof over my head when the man who swore to love me had thrown me out into the rain.
I walked behind Ana and Henrique to the blue iron gate. The street was deserted and dark, lit only by the yellowish streetlights. A dark sedan was parked right up against the curb. Henrique opened the back door for me.
Before getting in, I looked up at the S?o Paulo sky one last time, feeling the cold air cut through my lungs. Eduardo was somewhere in that metropolis—probably in his luxurious mansion, plotting my destruction, convinced that I was the monster of the story.
I got into the car and the door slammed shut, cutting me off from the sounds of the city.
As the car accelerated, disappearing into the narrow streets of the neighborhood toward my new refuge, I closed my eyes and clutched the gold ring in my pocket.
I was still terrified; I still felt tiny in the face of the war that was brewing.
But for the first time since I saw Dona Eleonora dead, I was no longer alone.
And fear was slowly beginning to give way to a small but incandescent spark of hope.