Nora denied knowing anything. Armando tried to claim I had planted it.

Marisol laughed in his face.

That night, she slept on our sofa with a baseball bat nearby and texted me, “Let them try.”

The next morning, we changed every lock. We blocked their numbers. Mateo canceled the monthly transfer he had been sending Nora.

His finger trembled before he clicked confirm.

“She’ll say I made her homeless,” he said.

“No,” I told him. “She gave up her home to force you.”

He clicked.

Transfer canceled.

A chain finally broke.

When we returned to Guadalajara, the house looked normal, but it no longer felt untouched. Drawers were open. Cabinets had been rearranged. A suitcase mark stained the entryway.

Behind a cushion, we found the red folder.

Change-of-address papers. Utility notes. Our schedules.

One note from Armando said: “If mail comes here, it will be harder to remove us.”

That ended every doubt.

This was not panic.

This was a plan.

We filed reports, gave the evidence to a lawyer, and sent a formal notice: Nora and Armando were not allowed to enter, approach, or contact us except through legal channels.

Nora did not accept it.

She called from unknown numbers. She sent crying messages. She involved relatives. She blamed me. She threatened to reveal things about me that Mateo would “never forgive.”

Mateo read the message and said, “She has nothing. She only wants you scared.”

So we screenshotted it and blocked her again.

Later, we learned Armando had left Nora. Once he realized she could not give him our house or Mateo’s money, he disappeared to another state.

Nora called one last time.