Patricia’s face went completely pale, her cheeks losing the soft pink blush she had carefully applied that morning.

“That is a fabrication,” Patricia said, her voice rising an octave.

“Emiliano, you know how easy it is to manipulate digital audio these days.”

“Anyone could have spliced those words together.”

The gray-haired officer stepped closer to the stairs.

“We have the metadata, Ms. Vance,” the officer said.

“The files were routed through a server in Panama that we have been monitoring for six months.”

“Your IP address is listed on the digital lease for that server.”

“And the payments came from an account registered under your maiden name.”

Patricia’s hand slipped slightly on the railing.

She looked around the foyer, her eyes darting from the police officers to Ramiro, and then to Rosa.

Rosa did not look down.

She stood tall, her apron spotless, her chin held high.

“You did this,” Patricia hissed, pointing a finger at Rosa.

“You’ve been snooping in my things.”

“You’ve been helping them set me up.”

“Rosa had nothing to do with this,” I said, my voice steady despite the pounding in my chest.