CHAPTER 13: Good and Bad.
2 days until Ari's birthday.
ARI
There are two kinds of people: the good ones and the bad ones.
And at that moment, I didn't know which one I belonged to.
Because what I was about to do wasn't something I could regret.
It wasn't an impulse.
It wasn't momentary anger.
It was something I had already thought about.
Planned.
I was at the bar, eating without hunger.
Alone. With no one around.
I ignored Liam's calls. I didn't have the strength to hear his voice or to pretend I was fine. I was finished. And for the first time, I didn't want anyone looking for me.
Lately, all they did was insist that I talk, that I remember, that I cooperate. The police were looking for clues that led nowhere. They walked in circles while time kept moving forward.
And I was fed up.
I was tired of waiting.
Of trusting.
Of sitting still while everything fell apart.
I wanted to find answers.
I wanted to find clues.
I wanted to find ÁMBAR.
I walked up to the bar to ask for the check and pretended not to notice the looks from the people inside.
Even so, even though I had lived through this before, it still surprised me how easy it was for them to surrender to the image of someone they believed they had under control.
Someone weak.
Someone innocent.
Things had happened to me. Things that wouldn't let me move forward, that forced me to grow up too soon.
But that… that, they didn't know.
I certainly didn't ruin my life. They did.
"Are you here alone?" a man around twenty-six asked me, while discreetly signaling one of the bartenders.
He was wearing dark jeans, a plain gray T-shirt, and an open black jacket; nothing flashy, the kind of clothing that blends into a crowd.
"Does that matter to you?" I replied as I took out my phone, turned it off, and left it on the bar.
"Well, it's dangerous for a young girl like you to be alone in places like this. It's almost eleven at night, and your parents must be worried," he said, in a tone that tried to sound kind.
I smiled at him slowly, as if I agreed.
"Yes, they must be," I answered. "Do you have children? Have you ever truly worried about someone?"
"Why do you ask?" he said.
"Because you talk like you know that feeling," I replied.
He nodded.
I let out a sigh and a brief, almost distracted laugh that didn't last long enough to be called real laughter.
"I've worried about my family."
"Oh, so you do have a family?" I asked.
He nodded again.
"Yes. I don't have kids, but my parents."
I nodded several times and took the drink in one gulp. It was the glass the man next to him had left on the bar. I felt his gaze lock onto me, then shift toward the guy, as if trying to understand what had just happened.
"You're already drunk. You should go home," he said.
I lowered my head. I knew that gesture would make him believe I was drunk enough to barely be able to walk out.
"Let me walk you," he added after a second. "You shouldn't be alone like this."
I didn't lift my gaze right away. I took a clumsy step back, just enough to seem disoriented, just enough for him to feel he had to intervene.
"No… I'm fine," I murmured. "I can manage."
It wasn't a real refusal. I knew it.
And so did he.
He stepped closer, invading that space people only cross once they've made a decision.
"I insist," he said, lowering his voice. "Just until you get home."
I nodded slowly, as if I didn't have the strength to argue. I let him take my arm, careful at first, almost gentle. I could feel him relax when he noticed I didn't pull away.
He thought he was helping.
He thought he had control.
He walked me to his car and settled me into the passenger seat, reclining it so I could lie back. I closed my eyes, but opened them for just a second when I felt him move away.
I saw him glance around quickly, alert, making sure no one was watching.
Then he got into the car, closed the door, and started the engine.
I closed my eyes again.
I felt him touch my shoulder to wake me.
"You need to tell me where you live… if you can," he said.
I opened my eyes slowly, brought a hand to my head, then looked at him. He seemed to expect a different reaction, maybe confusion or resistance, but all he got was my calm nod.
"I'm from out of town, so I'm staying in some apartments near here, about ten minutes away," I said.
He nodded. Something like a nervous smile appeared on his face, barely noticeable, as if that answer had shifted something in his mind.
"I thought I'd have to take you to my place," he commented. "Do you live alone?"
"Yes. The place isn't very big, so I can afford the rent."
After a while, the car stopped in front of a small building, painted cream-colored, the paint already worn.
"Do you want me to help you out?" he asked.
I shook my head, opened the door, and stumbled out. I didn't take two steps before he got out as well, positioning himself beside me to hold me, as if he'd been waiting for that moment.
I pulled the keys from my bag with deliberate clumsiness and brought them to the main door's lock. I took longer than necessary to get it right. I could feel his gaze fixed on my hands, impatient, attentive.
We went in.
We walked down the hallway in silence and climbed the stairs. He looked around, toward the doors, toward the ends of the corridor, as if memorizing the place or making sure no one was following us.
Finally, we stopped in front of the apartment door I had booked online.
I stayed still for a second, the key between my fingers.
I opened the door and went inside. He let go of me so I could pass. I turned to look at him and he gave me a calm smile.
"I hope you rest," he said kindly.
I let out a low laugh. It wasn't loud or exaggerated, but it was enough to make him frown slightly, confused by the sudden change in my attitude.
"Are you really leaving already?" I asked. "I don't have much to offer you, but I can give you some chocolate… and my homemade cookies."
"Do you think that's appropriate?" he asked. I assumed he meant the age difference.
I looked at him for a moment before answering.
"So you're telling me you walked me all the way here just out of kindness?"
He shook his head, uncomfortable.
"No… I just didn't think you would… invite me so quickly."
His gaze shifted from my face to the inside of the apartment, as if measuring the distance between what was right and what he had already decided. He swallowed.
"Just for a moment," he said at last. "To make sure you're okay."
I nodded, stepping back to give him space.
"Of course."
He entered slowly, as if he could still regret it. He didn't.
I closed the door behind him softly, without hurry. The sound was almost imperceptible, but I felt something settle into his posture, as if crossing that threshold made him assume he was now safe.
"Make yourself comfortable," I added. "I'll get the chocolate."
I walked toward the kitchen without looking back.
I knew he was watching every detail, believing he still had control of the situation.
He didn't know that by agreeing to come in, he had made the last decision I needed.
"Sorry, did you tell me your name?" he asked.
I shook my head as I placed the mugs on the kitchen counter.
"No, you didn't ask," I said. "It's Ari. It's not very common, actually."
"Isn't it a nickname or a diminutive?" he asked.
I shook my head. He seemed to accept it.
"It's strange… I think I've heard that name before."
"I guess it's not as unique as I thought," I said, trying to match it with a smile.
I took a step back and almost tripped. The gesture was enough for him to stand up immediately, moving toward me to help.
The distance between us closed too fast.
He was too close for someone who, moments ago, wanted to leave.
If he had wanted to, he would have left then. He would have stepped back, invented an excuse, suddenly remembered it was late.
But he didn't.
He had chosen to stay.
And in that moment I understood something with a clarity that calmed me: I didn't need to push him any further.
He had already crossed every line on his own.
I lifted my gaze slowly, just enough for our eyes to meet.
"I'm fine," I said softly. "You didn't tell me your name."
"It's Santiago," he replied. "You didn't ask either."
Then he stepped away and, even though I didn't ask him to, he sat back down.
I poured the chocolate into the mugs and looked for the spoons to stir. I took two. One was already prepared from before; I held it discreetly and brought it to his mug carefully, making sure the movement looked natural.
My pulse trembled just slightly.
Not from doubt, but from the brief, sharp fear of being discovered.
But when I looked up, I saw he wasn't watching me.
His attention was fixed on the photographs on the shelf. The same ones I had placed on purpose. He looked at them with interest, as if trying to decipher something in them, as if those images offered him a simpler story than the one right in front of him.
I took advantage of that second.
And it was already done.
I picked up the mugs and sat beside him. I handed him the correct one without saying a word.
He took it confidently, without hesitation, as if that simple gesture confirmed there was nothing to worry about.
I watched as he brought the mug to his lips, how he took the first sip naturally.
I didn't look for too long.
Sometimes, looking gives you away.
I brought my own mug to my hands and drank too, slowly, pretending normality.
He stopped drinking. I saw he had taken almost half and then looked back at the photographs.
Ámbar. Camila. And me.
"Who are they? Your sisters?" he asked.
I nodded.
"Yes. I'm the oldest, though not by much."
"Really?" he said. "They don't look very much alike, honestly. But I assumed it because they look close. I also thought they might be friends… so I was right."
I kept my gaze on my mug, listening to him, letting him believe that the conversation was only that: a calm, harmless chat.
The photos kept doing their job.
"Yeah, well… we're not blood-related. Maybe that's why," I said.
He nodded, assuming they were adopted.
"Did they stay in your hometown?" he asked, bringing the mug up again to take a couple of sips.
"No. They're here, in the city," I replied.
The mug stopped halfway to his mouth. He lowered it slowly, visibly confused, as if he had just noticed something didn't fit.
"So…" he hesitated. "Do you live together?"
"No, we don't," I replied.
He tried to let out a laugh, brief, uncomfortable. It didn't sound genuine; it was more a reflex than a real reaction.
"What's funny?" I asked.
He looked at me as if I had said something strange, as if the flaw wasn't in his questions but in me.
"That you're drunk and don't know what you're saying."
That's when I understood he needed to believe that.
That it was easier for him to think I was confused.
"When did I say I was drunk?" I asked.
I turned slowly and offered him my hand so he could bring the mug closer to me. The gesture was deliberate, measured. I watched how he hesitated for just a second before doing it, as if trying to decipher my behavior.
His fingers brushed the ceramic clumsily.
He stared at me, searching for a sign he couldn't find.
That's when I noticed it.
He was nervous.
"Are you feeling okay?" he asked and stood up from the couch as I set the mugs on the kitchen counter and turned around. "Maybe it's better if I leave, I'll call you."
Call me?
We never exchanged numbers. Never.
And yet he said it, as if his mind had gone blank and he'd blurted out the first stupid thing he found to get out of there.
I looked at him.
He was nervous. You could see it in his eyes, in how he moved too much, in that false urgency to leave. He had gotten himself into this mess and now wanted to play decent, the correct one, as if he hadn't crossed anything.
"Sit down, Santiago. I need to ask you some things," I said.
He shook his head immediately, too fast. His whole body tensed.
"I don't think it's better… for me to leave," he said, almost tripping over his words.
And that's when my patience ran out.
"Sit down!" I said, and this time it didn't sound like a request. "Santiago… sit down."
He looked at me, surprised, as if he were just realizing something wasn't right.
His body froze, unable to decide whether to leave or stay. And that gave me a strange, uncomfortable calm.
My hands weren't shaking anymore.
I wasn't drunk. I wasn't confused. And he had just noticed.
I stayed there, looking at him, without saying anything else. I didn't need to shout at him again. I didn't need to explain myself. He just had to understand that the clumsy girl from the bar was no longer in front of him.
How slow you are, I thought.
You thought it was easy.
He took a nervous step back, then another toward the couch. He sat down slowly, as if doing so meant admitting something he didn't want to think about.
Good.
"You tricked me into bringing me here," he tried to say.
"Are you sure?" I interrupted him before he could finish. "You never said no at any point. You came because you wanted to. You approached me, not the other way around."
I pointed at him. The gesture was enough to make him tense.
"You could have refused. You could have left. But you chose to stay. Because of course… you're a good person," I said, with a smile. "Kind. Respectable."
I took a step toward him until I was right in front of his face.
Me standing.
Him sitting.
Me above.
Him below.
I leaned in slightly, just enough for him to have to look up.
"You had to help the careless girl in the middle of the night," I continued. "Even knowing my age. Because yes, of course, the difference seems wrong to you… but not wrong enough to leave."
I saw him swallow.
"And let's not forget how dangerous it is for a young girl to be out at this hour," I added, mimicking his tone. "You had to do something. Get involved. Even though no one asked you to."
I straightened slowly.
"They always do the same thing."
And this time I didn't say it softly.
"Who?"
"Who else? You," I replied without hesitation. "You trap girls who are easy to deceive. Because of course, you're older… and handsome."
I let out a short, humorless laugh.
"You take an interest in them, but not too obvious. First something small, something to get their attention. A good impression. Then you pretend you don't."
"Of course you didn't want to take me to your place. Of course you didn't want to come into mine," I said, staring at him. "But you did want to. You were just testing the waters. A small step forward. Seeing if it was easy."
I took another step closer.
"Easy to manipulate. Easy to handle."
My voice dropped.
"Because a drunk girl can't defend herself, right?"
The silence fell heavy between us.
"It's not like that," he said quickly. "You're exaggerating. I just wanted to help you, nothing more."
He rubbed the back of his neck, as if suddenly he couldn't breathe.
"I saw you alone. I didn't think that… that anything strange would happen. Really."
I stared at him without blinking.
"Oh, no?" I asked. "Then explain to me why you agreed to come up. Why you came in. Why you sat down."
He opened his mouth, closed it. Looked for something.
"Because… because you seemed to need it."
"Of course," I replied. "It always seems that way, doesn't it?"
He leaned back slightly on the couch.
"You're confusing me with someone else."
"No," I said, stepping forward. "I'm not confusing you."
I hit my chest several times with my fingers.
"Do you think I'm stupid?"
He shook his head quickly.
I pulled a photograph from my pocket and held it up in front of his face.
"Is this you?" I asked. "Or are you going to deny that too?"
I watched him closely.
I already knew the answer.
I just wanted to see how far he was willing to lie.
He sighed and lifted his head. Something in his expression changed. The guilt disappeared.
In its place, something else appeared: feigned confidence, the kind they use when they believe they have nothing left to lose.
"Yes, it's me," he admitted. "And what about it?"
He shifted slightly on the couch, as if trying to regain control.
"Are you someone from the clans?" he asked. "From the enemies?"
I looked at him without answering right away.
That's when I understood he no longer saw me as a confused girl.
Now he saw me as a threat.
And that… I liked.
"No," I replied. "I don't belong to any of you. It's disgusting to belong to something like that."
I felt the anger rise inside me; I had to control myself.
"I can't even imagine the atrocities you commit against innocent people," I continued. "The lives you tear apart for money."
I lifted the photograph and pointed at it.
"The girl wearing the cap is Ámbar. She disappeared the same day you were there."
His eyes shifted just slightly.
"You called to alert them that we had left the store. I know it because you followed the van," I said without hesitation. "And because you have the same tattoo they do."
I pointed directly at his arm.
"So tell me where they took her," my voice dropped, cold, "and I'll let you go."
"Do you think telling you will bring your friend back?" he said, dragging out the words. "Who knows what they're doing to her now."
The sentence hit me like a blunt blow.
I felt something break inside me. It wasn't sadness. It wasn't fear. It was something else. Something worse.
"Oh… so you're implying they do to her the same things you did in those nightclubs," I said, without looking away. "Where you take intoxicated girls, lock them in private rooms, and abuse them."
My voice didn't shake.
"Like you tried to do with me," I added. "Because of course, I was an easy target."
I took another step closer.
"How many girls?" I asked. "How many have you helped disappear?"
The silence that followed was louder than any scream.
"Even if I tell you…" he murmured, tilting his head, "do you really think you're going to save her? Since when does anyone come back alive from this."
"Well," I said, "it'll be the first time."
I stared at him without blinking.
"And you're not the only one I'm going to bury," I added. "So start talking. It's not like you can do anything… or run."
"Fucking bitch, who do you think you are?" he spat.
He tried to grab me with his arms, pulling me toward him. The movement was clumsy, desperate. His gaze darkened when he tried to stand up… and couldn't.
"What did you do to me?"
I laughed. I couldn't help it. A laugh that burst out of me, uncontrolled, right in his face.
He squeezed harder, as if trying to shut me up. I took a deep breath to contain it, but the smile didn't leave my face.
"Isn't it funny?" I said, leaning a little closer. "Is this how it felt that time for you? But now that I think about it… watching someone so stupid fall so easily, and on top of that not be able to defend themselves…"
I looked him up and down.
"It's satisfying," I added, "to watch a piece of shit like you fall."
"Your body is going to start going numb," I told him. "First your legs… then your arms. They won't respond."
I smiled at him.
I freed myself from him without difficulty and went to the bedroom. The suitcase was already there, exactly where I had left it.
Ready.
I knew he still had his phone. I knew he would try to ask for help.
I came back into his field of vision. I dropped the suitcase on the floor and, calmly, put on the gloves. I took his phone before he could react and opened the camera app to record.
I watched him try to hide it, move it out of my sight clumsily.
I made a casual gesture with my hand.
"Don't worry," I said. "I know you're not going to call anyone."
I leaned in just enough for him to hear me clearly.
"There's no signal here."
His breathing became irregular.
"It wasn't that hard," I said. "I bought something illegal, sure, but it worked. That way you can't ask for help."
I looked at his phone.
He had left it on and unlocked.
He didn't even realize it when he tried to hide it.
I slid the screen calmly.
Chats.
Locations.
Ámbar.
Me.
More people.
Names.
Gallery.
Repeated faces.
Smiles that meant nothing.
Then I lifted my gaze to him.
"I think I remember you now," he murmured. "Weren't you one of those girls at the charity party?"
I slowly shook my head before he could say anything else.
Yes, I was there.
But not the way he thought.
Charity for institutions that fought the lack of education among the country's youth.
Donations meant for scholarships, for studies, for opportunities others never had.
Then came the night party.
Where everyone attended.
The same one where they were.
And it was one of those days that ruined my life.
"Of course you were there," he said, as if it were any ordinary memory. "How could I forget you… the silk dress, and that name that caught my attention when I asked you at the party."
I stared at him.
"Then why did you forget me after raping me?"
He didn't hesitate.
"Because after so many girls you get confused. You no longer remember who is who."
Disgust rose in me instantly. It wasn't anger at first. It was nausea. His very existence turned my stomach.
I took a step forward.
And without thinking anymore, I struck him directly in the face.
The dry sound echoed in the room. His head snapped to the side and blood began to run from his nose.
I didn't regret it.
Not for a second.
Because in that moment I understood something with brutal clarity:
he didn't just know what he was doing, he never cared.
I raised the phone.
"Talk," I said, "or I kill you."
He shook his head, as if the idea were absurd.
"You're not going to kill me," he replied. "You're not capable."
I ran a trembling hand through my hair.
Not from doubt. From something I no longer knew how to contain.
I went to the suitcase.
I opened it.
When I came back to him, I did it without care, without softness, without pretending anything. I stopped in front of his face.
"Do you really think I planned all of this to let you go if you refuse?" I said, my voice low.
I stared at him.
"Of course I'm going to kill you if you don't do what I say."
I didn't shout.
I didn't cry.
And that was what, for the first time, made him hesitate.
Because I was no longer speaking from fear.
He swallowed.
The confidence he had faked collapsed instantly.
"All right…" he murmured. "All right."
He lowered his gaze. He didn't try to hold it anymore.
"It wasn't just once. And not just me."
I tightened my grip on the phone and brought it a little closer.
"Talk."
"The organization is called The Northern Network," he said. "It's not new. It's been operating for years. It moves through clubs, bars, 'exclusive' events, charity parties… places where no one suspects anything."
I closed my eyes for a second.
Parties.
Charity.
Everything fit.
"They're in charge of recruiting girls," he continued. "Young, vulnerable, some with money, others with no one to protect them. First you gain their trust. Then you isolate them. After that… there's no turning back."
His voice cracked slightly.
"They move them. They sell them. They trade them. Some are forced to stay. Others…" he stopped. "Don't survive."
I didn't ask him to continue.
He did anyway.
"I took part in logistics. In transportation. In forging documents. In fraud to launder money. Also…" he closed his eyes, "also I abused them."
The word fell like a stone.
"More than once. In different places. Different girls."
I felt the urge to hit him again. I didn't.
"How many?" I asked.
"I don't know," he replied. "I lost count."
My stomach churned, but my voice didn't shake.
"Ámbar?"
He opened his eyes slowly.
"They took her to one of the safe buildings," he said. "Not here. Outside the city. She was still… still alive the last time I saw her."
That was worse than anything else.
"The leaders never show themselves," he added. "Only orders. Only payments. If someone fails… they disappear."
He looked up at me, defeated.
"I failed."
He let out a dry laugh.
"Do you really think this is all?"
I lifted my gaze immediately.
"The Northern Network…" he continued, "is nothing more than an arm. A small one. A branch, so to speak."
I felt something strange in my chest.
Not fear.
Something worse.
"There are other networks," he said. "Bigger. Cleaner. Untouchable. The elite network."
He spat the words with a mix of pride and terror.
"Politicians. Businessmen. Philanthropists. People who appear in magazines, who donate money, who talk about human rights while paying to destroy people."
My jaw tightened.
"They don't just sell bodies," he added. "They sell minds."
I swallowed, but didn't interrupt him.
"They turn them into useful things. Some don't even try to escape afterward. Others…" he shook his head. "Stay alive, but they're no longer themselves."
He swallowed before continuing.
"They're not just anyone," he said. "They're not bar guys or street-corner predators."
He lifted his gaze, as if afraid to say them out loud.
"Eduardo Larraín… senator for more than fifteen years. Public defender of the family. The same one who finances foundations to 'rescue youth.'"
"Mauricio Keinsin, energy businessman," he continued. "Appears in Forbes, donates millions to anti-trafficking campaigns… but pays double for a girl who doesn't break."
I clenched my teeth.
"Víctor Salgado, international banker," he whispered. "He doesn't touch. Never. He only watches. Decides who's useful and who disappears."
My breathing slowed. Controlled.
"There's also Helena Duarte," he added, and that made me lift my head. "Philanthropist. Impeccable public image. She's in charge of 're-educating' them."
The silence weighed heavily.
"And who else?" I asked.
He took his time answering.
"He's not on lists. He doesn't sign documents. He doesn't show himself."
He leaned forward slightly, as if the name carried weight.
"They call him The Curator."
The name ran through me like ice.
"Because he doesn't buy bodies," he continued. "He collects wills. He likes to choose them broken… or to break them himself."
My hand clenched without me noticing.
"I don't know much about him," he added. "Among us, people talk, but nothing concrete. Several girls from the country have disappeared. He probably uses false identities."
I nodded slowly.
It could sound like my stalker.
The coincidence was too clean, too precise.
And even so, I couldn't let it show.
"He becomes obsessed with his victims," he went on, "to the point of interacting with them. Although I wouldn't be so sure about that… it would be risking too much."
I looked at him in silence.
Because I knew something he didn't.
I didn't respond.
"Is that everything you know?" I finally asked.
He nodded, swallowing.
"That… and that when The Curator chooses someone, he doesn't make mistakes."
I tilted my head slightly.
"Why?"
He looked at me, and for the first time I saw no arrogance or mockery.
I saw real fear.
"Because he never loses interest," he said. "Even if months pass. Even if the victim believes they escaped."
I felt something tighten inside me.
"And what happens when he gets bored?" I asked.
He shook his head slowly.
"He doesn't get bored."
I turned off the recording.
The click sounded too loud in the apartment.
I went to the suitcase and put the phone in my jacket, as if everything were under control. As if that hadn't just marked me.
"That was all."
I turned my back.
And that's when he spoke again.
"If he's close to you… he already knows."
I stopped. I didn't turn around.
Because deep down, part of me already understood it.
And that was what terrified me the most.
"I already know that," I whispered, so low that even I didn't know if I said it.
"What will you do with that now?" he asked.
"I'm going to publish it," I said. "On social media. In the news."
He flinched. For the first time since he started talking.
"No… you can't do that. They'll kill me. Me… and you too."
I looked at him as if he had just said the stupidest thing in the world.
"No, Santiago," I replied calmly. "You die here."
He swallowed.
"But… but you'd become like me," he said. "You'd be a murderer."
I let out a short laugh.
"You kill innocents," I told him. "I don't. And you stopped being innocent a long time ago."
I stepped closer. Close enough for him to see my eyes.
"And I still see your damn laugh from that day," I continued. "I still hear it. I see your face. While you took control so I couldn't run. While you were on top of me."
"I'm sorry," he said. "I ask your forgiveness."
I shook my head slowly.
I knew the truth.
I knew that two nights earlier he had destroyed two other girls.
"You're not sorry," I said, and my voice broke halfway through the sentence. "Not even a little."
I pulled the gun from the suitcase and aimed it at him. My hands were shaking, but I didn't hesitate.
"Yes… yes, I am," he stammered. "If you shoot, they'll come after you. Don't you know who I am?"
I looked at him. I really looked at him.
"Yes, I know who you are," I replied. "That's why I'll kill you first, because you mean nothing to them."
I pulled the trigger.
The shot didn't sound the way I expected.
The silencer smothered the noise, as if even the weapon refused to make a scene.
His head fell to the side, resting against the couch.
Blood began to flow slowly.
His eyes stayed open.
I lowered the gun.
I took a breath and turned, went to the wall, and held myself up with my free hand.
I was crying.
Then I lifted my head and looked at him again.
"It was their mistake. They left me alive."