It had been the corruption, those threads that grew bigger and bigger around me, that squeezed my breath out, choked me to death. They had put the shackles on my body, set up a ploy to turn me into a suspect.
But Joanne didn’t seem to understand. It was obvious she didn’t know the truth. She didn’t know.
“Joanne, you can’t trust them . . . Don’t trust what the police say. I had to run for my life, they had our phones hacked.” I felt sweat on my palms.
Joanne’s eyes had a dull shine, as though insensitive to the terrors I had been through. The terrors I was going through.
“Please, Emily. You need to keep it together,” she said.
I thought we were friends.
The nurse came back into the room. She brought two other guys with her. One had syringes in his hands. The other one had palms of rock that shoved my body into the mattress.
“Please,” I said, my eyes capturing the whiteness of the ceiling. “Please, Joanne.”
The pressure on my shoulders released.
I felt a sudden calm coming up my forearm, born at the point where that syringe had bitten me. The faces of the nurses stepped away from the bed. Joanne’s took their places.
“Am I going back to sleep?” I said, drowsy.
“It’s only to calm you down. You’ve slept for a long time already,” Joanne replied. She put her hand over my forehead, a touch of affection that shattered the previous seriousness. I saw a lonely tear roll down her cheeks.
“What happened? Tell me, Joanne.”
“You’ve been lied to, Emily. I know that, in a normal situation, you’d never be able to do what you’ve done.”
“It’s all been a lie?” I asked. A sense of peace took over the room, all nurses gone.
Joanne went on. “Flávio Beirario doesn’t exist. He is a character in a story meant to deceive you.”
“No, Flávio Beirario wanted to capture me. I saw the killings inside Gloria Santa. Drug soldiers tortured Renato in front of me—he protected me.”
“Renato is a killer, Emily. A psychopath. He killed Carlos, the driver we had booked for your arrival in Rio. Renato wanted to use you in his scheme. And for that he tracked your phone and managed to gain your trust.”
I stared at Joanne, speechless. I could feel the steel on my wrists, but it didn’t seem cold. Was it really the truth?
Since the beginning, Renato forbid the use of phones. Perhaps he was afraid I’d search for information online, especially about Flávio Beirario.
But, no, she was wrong. I’d seen too much evidence to believe it was a ploy.
“He took me to his grandma’s house, Joanne. He took care of me . . . And got shot when protecting me from corrupt cops.”
Joanne looked over me, thinking deeply.
“The police went to Norma’s house. She really is his grandma. And it was at her house they found the outline of his plan. It was all on note cards: the fake story of Flávio Beirario, the young American tourist, how to gain her trust and bring her into Gloria Santa. Also, a diplomatic incident between the US and Brazil. In the end he would walk out of the slum alongside the tourist as the man who saved her from the drug lords.”
I closed my eyes, racking my brain in search of other evidence. Joanne must be wrong.
“I saw their eyes in the slum. They denounced me, they wanted me dead. There was this girl . . . Camila—and Fátima—they worked for drug lords. They kept us alive only to barter our lives with Flávio Beirario’s drug faction and—”
“No, Emily. Fátima and Camila . . . they we’re a terrible mistake. Camila even tried to warn you of Renao, but she told the police you didn’t understand what she said.”
Another lie, she didn’t tell anything. She only—
“Camila . . . I remember, she said Renato was bad when we were at her home, but I thought she was referring to his health condition. Oh my God, is it true, Joanne? Did Renato really plan all of that ahead?”
Joanne said nothing. I noticed she couldn’t handle repeating how badly mistaken I had been about everything.
“There’s a good chance you had your judgement hindered due to a language barrier. You might also be suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. We have an attorney studying your case. She’ll do her best to—”
She swallowed hard. I saw on her face she was unable to finish saying release you from prison.
“A language barrier, a treacherous scheme. I shot a drug dealer inside an abandoned house, and a man in a trolley, and I hurt Fátima.” I paused. “Is she ok, Joanne?”
“Fátima is in need of special treatment,” she replied, not daring to push forward.
But I still didn’t believe it. “I don’t understand. What would Renato achieve with this, besides being a hero?”
Joanne took a deep breath and sighed.
“He wanted to save an American tourist in order to apply for a Green Card in the US. This was his biggest goal. Go back to the country where he had once been extradited. But the course of his actions didn’t go as he expected. And now he is dead.”
His body lying on ground under a crackling sky came into view. He knew he was going to die. And that’s why he kissed me on the cable car, before getting shot.
So I figured there were some pieces left.
“What about those cops? Officer Paulo Pinto and Roberto Rôla? Do you know them?”
Joanne stared at me.
“Paulo Pinto is a chief detective in the Rio Police. He started an investigation against Renato the same day he picked you up at the airport. Carlos was killed that same morning.”
“You know they accused me? You know they—tried to arrest me at Praia
