“She wanted to ruin Rosa,” I said.

“No,” my father corrected me. “She wanted to isolate you and Martina.”

He looked up at the wall of screens.

“If Rosa is gone, there is no one left in this house who truly knows your mother’s wishes,” he said.

He stood up and began pacing the small, carpeted room.

The air felt thick, smelling of dust and warm electronics.

“Why would Rosa write this, even if she was forced?” Ramiro asked.

“She did not write it,” my father said. “Look at the phrasing. Rosa does not use words like ‘household accounts’ or ‘trust funds.’ She calls you the girls.”

He stopped pacing and looked at Ramiro.

“We need to know how Patricia got her signature,” my father said. “And we need to know why Rosa has been so quiet lately.”

He sat back down in the leather chair.

“Ramiro, pull up the archive files,” my father ordered.

“Which dates, sir?”

“Start from three months ago,” my father said. “Search the kitchen, the pantry, and the back terrace.”

Ramiro’s fingers flew across the keyboard.