The tallest officer, a man with graying hair and a silver star pinned to his lapel, looked up at my father.

“Mr. Duarte,” the officer said.

“We have verified the source of the transmissions.”

My father finally looked up from his phone, his face completely devoid of expression.

“Show her, Ramiro,” my father said.

His voice was quieter than usual, yet it seemed to fill every corner of the high-ceilinged room.

Ramiro reached into his dark suit jacket and pulled out a sleek black tablet.

He tapped the screen twice and held it out toward Patricia.

“This is the feed from the study,” Ramiro said.

“Recorded forty-five minutes ago.”

The sound of Patricia’s own voice began to play from the small speaker on the tablet.

The audio was crisp, free of the static that usually came from cheap hidden microphones.

“If he doesn’t sign the transfer by tomorrow, we use the offshore accounts,” her recorded voice said.

“He thinks his daughter did it.”

“He already suspects the girl.”

Martina let out a small, sharp breath next to me.

I squeezed her hand, keeping my eyes fixed on Patricia.