My father did not answer her.

He looked at me and Martina.

“Daniela, take your sister to her room,” my father said quietly.

“No,” Martina said, holding onto my arm. “I want to stay. I want to see her leave.”

“Go upstairs, Martina,” my father repeated, his tone leaving no room for argument.

I looked at my father’s face.

The anger was gone, replaced by a cold, hard resolve.

“Come on, Martina,” I said softly, tugging her toward the door.

We walked past Patricia.

She did not look at us.

Her eyes were fixed on the wall screen, which was still displaying the bank document.

As we reached the doorway, we heard the sound of gravel crunching on the driveway outside.

I stopped in the hallway, holding Martina’s hand.

The front security gates of the estate were visible through the tall glass windows of the foyer.

A set of bright headlights cut through the darkness of the driveway.

A large black SUV pulled up to the front entrance.

Behind it, two local police cruisers stopped, their blue and red lights flashing silently against the stone pillars of the villa.