“Varela was my father’s surname,” I said.

Alejandro let out a short, cold laugh and shook his head.

“Your father was a schoolteacher who died in a rented apartment with six hundred pesos in his checking account,” he said.

“Some names on old paper mean nothing in the real world, my dear.”

“If the name is on the land guarantee, it belongs to his family trust,” I said.

Alejandro stepped closer, crowding me against the taillight until I felt the cold metal against my hip.