“I believed Patricia when she said Martina was just being a moody teenager.”

Ramiro cleared his throat and pointed to the console.

“Señor, look at the live feed,” he said.

We both turned our eyes to the right side of the screen.

Patricia was walking down the grand staircase.

She was fully dressed in a tailored cream suit, her hair pinned up.

She carried a thick leather portfolio under her left arm.

The hallway lights cast long, thin shadows on the polished limestone floor.

She did not look toward the kitchen or the living room.

Instead, she walked straight toward the private study at the end of the east wing.

“Where is she going at this hour?” I asked.

“It is nearly midnight.”

“She thinks I am asleep in the guest cabin,” my father said.

He had told her he was staying there to finish some late-night work.

On the screen, Patricia opened the heavy oak door to the study.

She did not turn on the main overhead chandelier.

Instead, she switched on the small brass desk lamp.

The green glass shade cast a low, warm glow across the mahogany desk.