23 #2
For weeks I’d waited for something to connect the two matters. Now that it was in front of me, my mind searched for an alternative. Perhaps Rubens had been consulted after someone sent the material. Perhaps he’d been trying to stop publication. Perhaps Augusto had been keeping track of a response.
I asked these questions.
Eunice nodded.
“These are hypotheses we need to verify. Contact with the press, on its own, doesn’t prove who was behind the leak. The problem is the bigger picture and the explanation you were given about it.”
She opened a spreadsheet.
I recognized the figures from a cost comparison between two hotels.
The article had used some of those numbers.
The table compared purchase prices, but Linha Norte’s charges were in a separate file, entered as administrative services.
The internal version had a note with an unusual abbreviation and a typo.
The excerpt Rubens had forwarded repeated both.
“We can link this version to the material that passed through him,” the woman said. “We’ll check who it circulated to. This doesn’t mean only one person could have had access.”
I leaned in to read.
I remembered Augusto telling me Cecília had overheard conversations and taken advantage of her access to the family. I remembered how confidently he’d pointed to the eighteen thousand reais. Not once had he mentioned Rubens or an earlier exchange with the newsroom.
“She worked at one of the hotels,” I said. “But she didn’t have that access when this document was produced.”
“We’re checking the records and the dates,” Eunice replied. “We’re not going to assume that—or assume the opposite.”
For the first time, that precision didn’t irritate me.
I needed someone whose work didn’t depend on what I wanted to believe.
***
The meeting lasted nearly two hours.
By the end, the team had new documents to request and interviews to schedule. The discrepancies in the payments would be referred to independent oversight.
“Does Augusto know about these files?” I asked.
“He knows we’re reviewing the company’s records,” Eunice said. “Specific questions will be asked at the appropriate time. We need to avoid an informal discussion that mixes memories and versions of events before we document what we have.”
I nodded.
She closed her laptop.
“Dante, this review will also examine your actions. The contracting system, the approvals, and how information reached you.”
“I know.”
“I want to make sure you understand the scope of this. It’s not just about finding out if your brother told you the truth.”
I looked at both of them.
I recognized my signature on one of the sheets. I felt like explaining how much material landed on my desk every day. I kept the explanation to myself.
“I understand. I’ll answer what I’m asked and provide the records I have.”
The woman noted my answer. Her face showed no approval. She simply continued her work.
When I left, there was a missed call from Augusto.
I looked at the name for a few seconds before listening to the message. It was about a board meeting and preparing the numbers. He wanted to coordinate what we would present together.
For years, that word had meant comfort.
Together, I could forget there were things I didn’t know. Augusto would know. Together, decisions seemed to have been considered by two people even when I’d merely agreed with the first.
I called him back.
“I got your message.”
“Are you in the building?”
“I am. Send the material ahead of time. I’ll read it before the meeting.”
“I’ll come by and walk you through it.”
“Send it first.”
There was a brief pause.
“Was Eunice with you?”
“I met with the review team.”
“Are you going to keep treating me as though I’m on the other side of the table?”
The question made me look at the empty chair across from me. My brother knew the words we’d been using long before the company.
“I need to read the documents, Augusto. That shouldn’t be a problem.”
“It never has been. I’m only trying to save time.”
“Today I’m going to use that time.”
He said he’d send them. He hung up without saying goodbye.
I didn’t go after him.
***
That night, I came home with stiff shoulders and the feeling that I’d spent the day clenching my teeth.
I took off my watch, left my keys on the sideboard, and saw the note beside my computer about my next visit with Bento. The Saturday before, he’d insisted on drawing a window inside another window. I’d almost corrected him. Then I’d remembered that a window could go wherever he wanted.
I sat down on the couch.
I thought about calling Cecília. I wanted to tell her there was finally a paper trail leading to the article. I wanted to hear her voice react to Rubens’s name. I wanted her to know I was still looking.
I looked for a way to tell her without announcing a conclusion that the team hadn’t reached yet.
I wrote a short message. I said that records had surfaced regarding the intermediary’s contact with the press and that the team would look into them. I asked if she’d prefer to receive updates through Clarice.
She said yes, with the supporting documents. She added that she wanted to know if anything might affect the bakery.
I confirmed.
Then another message came.
“Does this change what you think happened?”
I stared at the question.
She could have been referring to the payments, the news report, or my brother. I didn’t want to hide behind an answer that addressed only the simplest part.
“It changes what I know about how the documents got there. I already know I was unfair to you. I’m not waiting for more proof to acknowledge that.”
I read it over before sending it. There was no request for a reply at the end.
Cecília took a few minutes.
“All right. Clarice will follow up on whatever’s needed.”
I set the phone aside.
Augusto’s material had arrived on my computer. I opened the first file. Some numbers I knew; others I needed to understand. I began noting my questions, one at a time.
When I found a reference to Linha Norte, I wanted to call my brother and demand that he stop pretending.
I noted the question in the document.
I still needed to hear the answers. This time, I’d also need to figure out what they were hiding.
25
CECíLIA
The bride asked for water before going in.
I was picking up an empty box in the side hallway when I saw her stop next to her mother. She wasn’t wearing a veil over her face. Her eyes were shining, her fingers clenched around the bouquet, and there was a small smudge of lipstick on the glass that a staff member handed her.
“Take it easy,” her mother said, touching her shoulder.
The young woman drank, took a deep breath, and laughed at something I couldn’t hear.
I kept holding the box.
It was Friday. The third delivery of the season was ready, the setup had gone well, and Teresa had already checked everything with me.
The day before, we’d delivered the architecture firm’s order.
Joana had left happy that we’d stuck to her hours and with a thank-you message from the clients. I had concrete reasons to be pleased.
Even so, I kept looking at the glass in the bride’s hand until the staff member took it away.
I remembered the thirst.
Not the dress or the flowers. The dry mouth I felt the moment I realized Dante wasn’t just nervous. The difficulty swallowing before I told him I was pregnant. How, afterward, I couldn’t remember if I’d drunk any water during all those hours.
The music changed in the ballroom.
I stepped away before the door opened. I didn’t want to see the man waiting for her. I had nothing against that couple. I just couldn’t bring myself to focus on their happiness at that very moment.
In the storage room, I set the box down and rested my hands on the edge.
My body knew I was twenty-nine years old, had a son, a business, and a car parked just a few meters away. I could walk out the service door without asking anyone’s permission.
Even so, it took me a few seconds to draw a full breath.
Joana showed up with the bag of utensils.
“Does this still need checking, or have you done it?”
I looked at her.
“I still need to check it.”
She set the bag down, opened it, and began listing the items. I answered one by one, grateful for those simple words that required simple answers.
On our way out, Teresa gave me a copy of the delivery receipt and said the following week was confirmed. She asked if I needed anything. I said no, because all I needed at that moment was to go home.
***
That night, Bento slept sideways across the bed, one leg on top of the blanket.
I had picked up my son at my mother’s house, given him a bath, heated up his dinner, and listened to a long story about a missing piece from a toy. I did everything in the usual order. The feeling from the hotel hallway followed me from one room to the next, growing fainter without ever going away.
When the house finally quieted down, I sat in the living room.
There was a photo folder on my phone I rarely scrolled all the way back through. I passed birthdays, drawings, a morning when Bento had put his feet in my boots. I went back farther. I found a picture from January 2020.
He was wrapped in a pale blanket, his mouth open in a yawn. Only part of my arm showed. I knew what lay outside the frame: where my mother had put her purse, which bag held his going-home clothes, how much it hurt to shift position.
Dante knew when he’d been born.
He didn’t know about that morning.
I stared at our message thread until I decided to call. It was a little after ten. If he didn’t answer, I’d leave it for another day.
He answered on the third ring.
“Cecília?”
“Bento’s fine,” I said first.
I heard him exhale.
“Are you okay?”
I looked at the photograph.
“There was another wedding today.”
He waited.