Footsteps echoed from the lower level as the heavy front doors were opened.

Three police officers in dark uniforms came up the stairs, followed by a man in a gray suit.

The man in the suit was Detective Vargas, a man my father had known for many years.

“Emiliano,” Vargas said, stepping onto the landing and tipping his head.

“Thank you for coming quickly, Alberto,” my father said, his voice flat and exhausted.

“Where is she?” Vargas asked, looking around the dim hallway.

Before my father could answer, a door further down the corridor clicked open.

Patricia stepped out into the light of the hallway, her hair perfectly styled, her silk robe tied neatly at her waist.

She looked at the officers, her eyes widening for a fraction of a second before her face turned into a mask of confusion.

“Emiliano, darling, what is going on?” Patricia asked, her voice sweet and dripping with concern.

She took a step toward my father, her hand reaching out as if she were the victim of some terrible misunderstanding.

“Why are there police officers in our home?” she asked, looking at Vargas.