Patricia gripped the wooden railing of the staircase, her knuckles turning white.

She looked at my father, her eyes wide with a mixture of anger and panic.

“Emiliano, you can’t do this,” she whispered.

My father stood perfectly still at the top of the stairs, looking down at her.

The phone in his hand lit up with a new notification.

The screen of his phone reflected a pale blue light across his jaw.

He did not look up at her right away.

My sister Martina pressed her shoulder against mine, her hand trembling as she held my wrist.

Rosa stood just behind us, her breathing shallow but steady.

“Emiliano, please,” Patricia said, her voice dropping to a sharp, desperate whisper.

She took a step up the grand staircase, her hand sliding along the polished mahogany railing.

“This is a mistake,” she said.

“They cannot just walk into our home like this.”

Ramiro took three paces forward, his boots clicking against the marble tiles of the foyer.

The three officers followed him, their heavy leather utility belts creaking with every step.