My father walked out of the study and stood at the top of the grand staircase.

He looked down at the front door.

From the hallway below, the heavy wooden front door opened.

Ramiro walked in first, his face solemn, his dark suit immaculate.

Behind him were three men in dark suits with police badges clipped to their belts.

They were not the regular patrol officers who usually cruised the neighborhood.

They were high-ranking supervisors from the district precinct.

Ramiro looked up at my father and gave a single, firm nod.

“They are here, Señor Duarte,” Ramiro said, his voice echoing in the quiet foyer.

Patricia walked out of the study, her heels clicking rapidly on the hardwood floor.

She stopped when she saw the men standing in the foyer.

The blue and red lights from the police cruisers danced across the high white walls of the entryway, casting long, shifting shadows.

One of the police supervisors took a step forward, his hand resting on his leather belt.

“Patricia Vance?” the officer asked, his voice booming in the open space.