14
DANTE
Rubens Faria signed off the same way in emails about things that should have had nothing to do with each other.
In one, he discussed a linen delivery to a hotel outside the city. In another, he requested reimbursement for business entertainment expenses. In a third, he forwarded a spreadsheet of financial settlements to Augusto’s team.
Eunice zoomed in on the document on the screen.
“He’s the operations contact in Linha Norte’s correspondence. We’re mapping those connections by contract and property.”
I recognized the name. I couldn’t put a face to it.
“How long has he been working for us?”
“There are records dating back to before 2019. We’re still identifying all the services the company claims to have provided.”
The room was too cold. I’d left my jacket on the chair and wanted to put it back on, but stayed leaning over the table.
“Claims?”
Eunice changed the image. Two invoices appeared side by side, with the hotel’s delivery records.
“Here, the manufacturer delivered straight to the hotel. Linha Norte was paid for arranging it, which may be legitimate. The problem is that the charge includes logistics oversight, but the manager at the time says she dealt directly with the manufacturer and knows nothing of that oversight. We need to check who commissioned the service and who signed off on it.”
I read the description a second time.
Linens. An intermediary. An extra charge I’d seen in a report among dozens of other figures.
Before everything fell apart, Cecília had asked me about a charge. I remembered her voice, curious rather than accusing. Remembered promising I’d check. Augusto had told me then that the difference covered negotiation and distribution.
I’d repeated his explanation to her as if I’d checked anything at all.
“That needs to go in your account, too,” Eunice said when I told her.
“It’s already noted that I asked him about a supplier. I don’t remember the manufacturer’s name.”
“Add what you remembered today, dated today. Don’t fill in the gap just because it resembles the document you’ve seen.”
I nodded.
She went back to the settlement spreadsheet. Cecília’s deposits were in a column of incoming funds, with no mention of a loan. Other transactions shared the page, with a total at the end of the month.
“This spreadsheet was sent to Augusto’s company email address,” Eunice went on. “We can say the information reached his inbox. We’re still checking the replies and the reconciliation process.”
I ran my tongue over my teeth.
“He received the data.”
“His email address did. Finance staff also monitored that account. We’ll speak to everyone involved and check the sequence.”
I wanted to hear Augusto’s name without the qualification. I turned the pen again and waited for her to continue.
“And Rubens?”
“The company has formally requested documents from him. The external team will ask about the discrepancies. You don’t need to contact him.”
I clenched my hand around the pen until I felt the pressure on my fingers.
Eunice looked at me.
“Are there any other relevant personal relationships that haven’t been disclosed yet?”
I thought of Bento. I started to answer, then stopped.
“Are you asking about Cecília?”
“About your involvement in the review. Your personal relationship is already declared. If anything else affects your position, I need it on record.”
The pen had left a deep mark on my finger.
“For now, I’ve told you what there is to report. If I need to add anything, I’ll speak to the people overseeing the review.”
She nodded. The review would expand to other Linha Norte contracts. I followed the report as she went through the properties they would contact.
By the time I left, it was past lunchtime.
***
Augusto was in my office.
A few weeks earlier, I would have found it odd to see him in the visitor’s chair. Usually he leaned on my desk, took a coffee capsule, and began talking before I reached the door. That Tuesday, he kept his folder on his lap.
“I asked them to let me know when you got back,” he said.
I closed the door without locking it.
“What’s this about?”
“We’re getting duplicate requests about longtime vendors. My team has to stop closing the books to answer things they’ve already answered.”
I went to the desk and put down my notebook. The folder I’d brought from the meeting stayed closed.
“You can flag the duplicates for Eunice.”
“I can. I have. She asks again and calls it something else.”
I sat down.
A small coffee stain marked Augusto’s shirt cuff.
I saw it with irritating clarity. I knew how he rubbed the fabric when he spilled something, how impatient stains made him, how he left the table before everyone else had finished eating.
Those details didn’t fit the man I was starting to see. They didn’t clear him, either.
“The team needs what they asked for,” I said.
“I’m not saying we should withhold documents. I’m saying they’re looking for wrongdoing in a business model you approved.”
He opened the folder and took out an old presentation. One line was marked in pen: centralized purchasing through regional partners.
My name appeared on the list of participants.
“You wanted speed. Fewer people in-house, fewer minor negotiations coming to management. We built a structure for that.”
I looked at the page.
“Approving partners doesn’t mean approving charges for services that weren’t provided.”
Augusto looked up.
“Who said they weren’t provided?”
“I’m making a distinction. If the services were provided, the records will show it.”
“You think I don’t check what I sign?”
He barely raised his voice. I knew the tone that ended arguments between us: hurt enough to make me rephrase, controlled enough to make any insistence on my part look disloyal.
“I’m saying the review will continue.”
He picked up the page but didn’t put it away.
“This started because of Cecília.”
“It started because there are questions that haven’t been answered.”
“You didn’t ask those questions for five years.”
The statement hit hard because it was true.
I could have told him I’d trusted him. He’d shown me the documents. Claimed to be protecting the family. There was room to say all that. None of it changed the fact that I’d chosen not to look into it.
“I didn’t,” I replied. “I’m doing it now.”
Augusto studied me. I saw him abandon irritation and try something else.
“Have you seen her again outside of the meetings?”
Bento’s name popped into my head before I could stop it. I kept my hands on the table.
“My personal life isn’t the subject of this conversation.”
“It is when you put an entire company to work over her.”
“The company has records to check. Your team needs to cooperate. Let’s keep it at that.”
He stood up.
“Just don’t forget how many of those decisions were yours, Dante.”
“I haven’t forgotten.”
My brother waited. Perhaps he imagined I’d add something that might restore our familiarity—an invitation to lunch, a complaint about Eunice, an admission that I’d gone too far.
I remained seated.
Augusto left with the presentation in his hand.
I stared at the door after he left. His absence brought no relief. Only the beginnings of a loss I couldn’t measure, and the unpleasant reminder that other people had spent years paying for my comfort.
I added the memory of Cecília’s question about the vendor to my account, keeping it separate from the documents I’d seen that morning. I sent a factual note about Augusto’s complaint so the team could address any duplicate requests without stopping the review.
At four o’clock, I took a break to confirm Saturday’s plans with Cecília.
She replied after six. Same time. If it didn’t rain, Bento wanted to show me the vegetable garden at the back of the play space. He liked looking for a sign with a carrot on it.
I read the message in the hall, between one meeting ending and the next beginning.
A vegetable garden. A sign. A place I’d never been to.
I replied that I’d be there.
When I put my phone away, Augusto’s name was still on the attendee list for the next meeting. I went in, took my usual seat, and listened to my brother present the month’s figures.
This time I wrote down the questions I would once have let him answer for me.
15
CECíLIA
We hadn’t made it halfway before Bento decided I was too slow.
“The carrot’s going to close,” he said, pulling my hand.
“The carrot doesn’t close. We just got here.”
It was the third Saturday. A group had come for a workshop, and the sandbox was busier than on our other visits. Bento had seen another child with the red truck, agreed to wait, then remembered the vegetable garden with an urgency that had nothing to do with plants.
Dante walked on the other side, letting Bento lead. He wore a dark T-shirt. For some reason, it bothered me more than his button-downs. I knew how those short sleeves felt under my palm. Not a useful memory.
At reception, I’d given him the cufflink in a little bag. He’d put it in his pocket. I could still remember my fingers learning to work that tiny fastening.
The path to the vegetable garden curved around a flower bed and ended at a low gate, open during visits. From a bench under a tree, we could see the raised beds and a table with little watering cans. I sat to fix the tongue of my sneaker.
Bento stopped.
“Are you coming?”
“I’ll be right there.”
He looked at the garden, then at Dante.
“Do you know where it is?”
“Not yet. You can show me.”
Bento looked back at me. I still had my foot raised, the lace between my fingers.
“Can I go?”
I looked down the path. Fifteen or twenty steps. No stairs, no exit to the street. An employee was watering a garden bed nearby.
“Yes. I’ll stay here. No running.”
He set off at a fast walk, allowing himself a generous interpretation. Dante looked at me before following.
I nodded.
The two of them reached the gate. Bento pointed to the carrot sign, explained something, and crouched down near a wooden box. Dante bent his knees to get a better look.
I sat with the loose shoelace in my hand.