Here is the English translation of the second part of the story, continuing with the same accurate grammar, natural tone, and U.S.-adapted names and locations (Detroit, Flint, etc.) without caps lock.
“Ramiro… come out of there.”
My dad didn’t sound drunk.
That was the first thing that froze me solid.
At home, when he argued, his voice would crack and drag; it smelled like beer and defeat. But in that hallway of the abandoned factory, it sounded steady, cold, almost elegant.
As if the real Arthur Maldonado had just walked in.
My uncle pushed me behind a rusted filing cabinet.
“Don’t move,” he whispered. “No matter what happens, do not let go of that folder.”
I pressed the papers against my chest.
The lightbulb flickered over the photos taped to the wall. My mom when she was young. Ramiro in handcuffs. My dad counting bills. Me as a baby with that horrible note:
“If the kid asks, tell him Ramiro was the thief.”
The footsteps stopped in front of the office.
“I know you’re in there with him, Diego,” my dad said. “Come out, son. Don’t let that convict put ideas in your head.”
Ramiro walked out first with his hands up.
“Don’t call him son as if you don’t know what you did.”
My dad walked in.
He was holding a gun.