“Your cousin Paolo fell in love with the widow. And she? What can I tell you: She adored him. But they had to hide from everyone, especially Grandfather, as you can imagine. We all knew that if he found out what was going on something terrible would happen.

“One night when I was feeling very lonely because you’d stayed in the city with your father, what we’d all been dreading happened. Grandfather realized the widow wasn’t in his bed, and then, naturally, began to understand. He went straight to Paolo’s room and found the door locked. He tried to force it open as his voice got louder and louder, that voice of his that shook us all to the core. He ordered them to open the door, he cursed, he pounded it with his cane and his feet. The door shivered, the house trembled. Everyone was awake but none of us dared leave our rooms.

“The old man became an animal, a madman. He kept screaming a filthy word at the widow, screaming at the boy that he was going to kill him.

“Half an hour went by, hijo, at least half an hour. I was sick with terror . . .

“We heard a shot . . .

“Grandfather fell silent, at last.

“We began to appear one by one in the hallway, barefoot, without putting our clothes on. After all the noise, a silence had fallen, such a heavy silence . . .

“We heard someone inside lift the latch. The door swung open and the widow raised a lamp so we could see what was in there and do something. Paolo was lying on the floor, curled in a ball, unconscious, wearing only his shirt. He had the hunting rifle between his legs. A bloodstain was spreading across his shirt . . .”

•

I walk past Bibi’s office, acting casual. With feigned indifference, I wonder out loud: Was she trying to suggest, in the notes she gave me, that suicide is a hereditary disease?

“No!” she replies in surprise. “No conclusion whatsoever. It’s only two cases and they’re very old, but representative. In case they were useful to you. I wanted to help.”

Now she’s calling me tú, as if we were on intimate terms. Well, well . . .

•

Will we keep working on the story of the two students? I’m not so sure, but we don’t have anything else today. It’s Saturday and the courts are closed, Marcela warns. I explain that I have the clerk’s private phone number. She tells me to call and I do and he’s there. He’ll work with us.

He says he searched the bedroom of the one who shot a bullet into his friend before killing himself.

He gives me the lay of the land—“Family has lots of money, eh”—then specifies, “He didn’t leave a note, not even for his parents. But I found a notebook with a story. My theory is confirmed: It was a pact. The judge will be satisfied. On Monday I’ll give him my work, almost complete.”