“Explain, then. Explain the spreadsheets detailing the value of your parents’ life insurance. Explain the notes on poison doses. Explain the conversations with your girlfriend about how to make it look like a natural death.”
David closed his eyes. When he opened them again, there were tears in them.
“You guys do not understand. Victoria… she convinced me. She said it was the only way to have a better life. She had already done it before. She said it was easy, that no one would discover it.”
“So you admit you were planning to murder your parents?”
A long silence.
Then, almost in a whisper:
“Yes.”
I felt my legs go weak. Hearing that confirmation, even already knowing the truth, was like receiving a punch in the stomach. Robert beside me let out a choked sob.
“And you had already started to execute that plan. Had you already administered toxic substances to your father?”
David lowered his head.
“Yes. Small doses at breakfast. Victoria said it would take a few months. That it would seem natural.”
“Your father could have died, Mr. David. He could have suffered permanent damage. Do you have any notion of the gravity of what you did?”
David’s tears now ran freely down his face.
“I know. I know. And I… God, what did I do? What did I become?”
The officer made a signal, and two police officers entered the room.
“David Mendes, you are under arrest for attempted qualified homicide. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you.”
While they read his rights, David looked around the room as if searching for an exit. His eyes passed over the mirror, and for an irrational moment I thought he could see me.
“My mom,” he said suddenly, interrupting the officer. “My dad. Do they know?”
“They know everything. In fact, they are here.”
David turned pale.
“No, please. No. I need to talk to them. I need to explain.”
“I think you already explained enough, Mr. David.”
When they put the handcuffs on him, something inside me broke. Seeing my son like that, handcuffed like a common criminal, was a pain I did not know existed. Robert held me while I broke down crying.
Prosecutor Saints entered the observation room.
“Do you want to talk to him?”
I looked at Robert. He shook his head.
“Not yet. I cannot. Not yet.”
“I understand. He will be transferred to prison today. Victoria Fernandez will also be arrested. We found enough evidence to accuse her not only of complicity in this case, but also of homicide in the case of her parents.”
The following days passed in a surreal haze. Robert and I returned home, but the house did not seem the same. Every room held memories that were now stained by betrayal. The kitchen where David poisoned us. The living room where he sat and talked with us, faking concern. His room, through whose door I could not even pass.
The complete results of Robert’s tests arrived. Besides arsenic, there were traces of two other toxic compounds. The doctor explained that if he had continued being poisoned for more weeks, Robert would probably have suffered permanent damage to his liver and kidneys, possibly even organ failure.
“He was lucky,” said the doctor. “Very, very lucky.”
Lucky.
What a strange word to describe discovering your son wants to kill you.
The news leaked to the press. Somehow some journalist discovered the story, and soon we were on all the news channels. Son planned to murder parents for inheritance. Engineer arrested for attempted homicide of his own parents. Girlfriend convinced him to kill family.
Our house was besieged by reporters. We had to hire private security just to be able to leave. Neighbors who once greeted us now looked at us with a mixture of pity and morbid curiosity.
We decided we would not give interviews. Our pain was ours, not public entertainment.
One week after the arrest, we received a letter from David. The prison had sent it. After verifying that it did not contain anything inappropriate, Robert wanted to throw it in the trash without reading it, but I needed to know what he had to say.
The letter was short, written in familiar handwriting.
Mom and Dad,
I know I do not deserve forgiveness. I know what I did is unforgivable, but I need you to know that I regret it deeply. It was not you who failed as parents. It was me who failed as a son.
Victoria manipulated me. She made me believe that you were obstacles to our happiness. But that is no excuse. I knew what I was doing. I chose to do it. I am going to pass the rest of my life trying to understand how I reached this point, how I became someone capable of planning the death of the two people who loved me most in the world.
If I could go back, if I could undo everything, but I cannot. I just wanted you to know that despite everything, despite all my monstrosity, part of me still loves you, and part of me died when I realized what I had become.
David
I folded the letter slowly. There were no tears. I had cried so much in the last few days that I seemed to have no more tears to shed.
“What are you going to do with that?” asked Robert.
“Keep it. I think. I do not know. Maybe one day I will manage to read it without feeling this.”
I pointed to my chest, where a constant pain had installed itself.
Our lawyer, Miss Claudia, came to visit us. She brought news about the case.
“Victoria is trying to throw all the blame on David. She says he was the brain of everything, that she just agreed with what he said out of fear. But we have the conversations, the evidence. No one is believing her.”
“And her parents’ case?” I asked.
“It is being reopened. Based on the new evidence and the pattern of behavior, there is a good possibility she will be formally accused of their murder too.”
“How much time are they going to give them?” Robert wanted to know.
Miss Claudia sighed.
“David is being accused of attempted qualified homicide with aggravating circumstances. The victims being his own parents, premeditation, use of poison. He can receive 15 to 30 years. Victoria, if she is convicted of her parents’ murder too, can receive the maximum penalty, practically life imprisonment.”
Thirty years.
David would be almost 65 when he got out. His whole life wasted.
The trial was scheduled for three months later. Until then, we would have to live with the press, with the looks, with the pain.
We started going to therapy, first individually, then as a couple. The therapist, Dr. Sarah, was patient with us. She did not try to force acceptance or forgiveness. She just helped us process one day at a time.
“You went through a deep trauma,” she explained in one session. “Not only because of the betrayal, but because of the complete rupture of trust in the person who should be most trustworthy. That takes time to heal. Maybe it never heals completely.”
“I cannot even look at photos of him,” I confessed. “I put everything away. All the albums. All the photos in the living room. I cannot stand seeing his face.”
