Approaching the table, he noticed the order: bills grouped by denomination, secured with colored bands, even sorted by condition. It was meticulous. Almost obsessive.
“You did all this alone?” he asked, disbelief slipping through.
Lucía nodded, hands folded like someone awaiting judgment.
“I couldn’t leave it scattered,” she said. “I couldn’t pretend I hadn’t seen it.”
In Adrián’s world, honesty always came with a price tag. A hidden motive.
But she stood there with quiet dignity—as if integrity wasn’t a strategy, but a reflex.
She handed him the notebook. Cheap leather cover. Dog-eared pages.
“I documented everything,” she explained. “Every stack, every value, even how it was placed originally. So you’d know I only counted and organized.”
Adrián opened it—and had to brace himself against the table.
“$268,000 in hundred-dollar bills.”
Below it: detailed notes. Folded bills. Stains. Tears. Even a simple sketch showing where everything had been hidden.
It was overwhelming.
Then Lucía spoke again, barely above a whisper.
“There’s more.”
Her eyes were red. She’d been crying.
“While I was counting… I found this. I know I shouldn’t have read it, but it was a letter. I thought you needed to see it.”