Outside, the wind caught the branches of the oak trees, scraping them against the brick wall of the estate.

The sound was like fingernails scratching at the glass.

I looked at Rosa’s bandaged wrist again.

Earlier, I had found her in the pantry, crying quietly while trying to clean a deep burn on her skin.

She had admitted, in a trembling voice, that Patricia had deliberately bumped into her while she was carrying a pot of boiling water.

It was not an accident.

It was a warning.

“We are staying right here,” I said, crossing my arms.

“If the police come, we will tell them the truth.”

“We will tell them about the burn on Rosa’s hand.”

“We will tell them about the jewelry you hid in your own designer bag.”

Patricia’s eyes narrowed, her fingers tightening around her phone.

“Who do you think they will believe?” she asked, her voice dangerously quiet.

“The future wife of Emiliano Duarte, or a pair of rebellious teenagers and a housekeeper who can barely speak English under pressure?”

“Captain Vargas is a personal friend of mine.”