Then, the bottom corner of the camera feed showed a slight movement.

A shadow crept into the frame near the bookshelf.

It was Ramiro.

He moved like a ghost, without making a single sound.

He reached the desk and opened the drawer.

My father held his breath.

Suddenly, a light flickered at the top of the monitor.

The hallway camera showed a door opening.

Patricia’s bedroom door opened, and she stepped back out into the hall.

I stood behind my father’s chair, my fingers pressing into the cold plastic of the seat back.

My chest felt tight as I watched the screen.

Patricia stood in the hallway, adjusting the collar of her silk robe.

She looked toward the stairs, her face illuminated by the soft nightlights of the corridor.

“She is going down to the kitchen,” I whispered.

My father did not look at me.

His eyes were locked on the monitor showing the study.

Ramiro was still inside, his back turned to the camera as he reached into the bottom drawer of the mahogany desk.

“Ramiro,” my father said into the small radio on the desk.