She knelt by the stuffed rabbit on the Persian rug.

Her manicured fingers pressed against the white plush fabric of the toy’s belly.

With a quick, practiced motion, she found the hidden seam at the back of the toy’s neck.

She pulled out a small, tightly folded slip of paper.

“I am moving to the study now,” she whispered into the receiver.

My father’s breath hitched in his throat.

His hand clutched the edge of the desk so hard his fingernails dug into the wood.

“Ramiro, switch to camera four,” my father said.

Ramiro’s hand moved quickly over the illuminated keyboard.

The monitor on the far right flickered and filled with the image of my father’s private study.

The room was dark, lit only by the pale moonlight coming through the tall arched windows.

A moment later, the heavy oak door opened.

A long wedge of yellow light cut across the dark mahogany floor.

Patricia stepped inside the room, her silhouette thin and rigid.

She did not turn on the overhead lights.

Instead, she used the bright white light of her phone screen to guide her steps.