His voice was a low, scratchy whisper.

“She is on the move. Get out now.”

On the screen, Ramiro did not freeze.

He was too professional for that.

His hand moved quickly, pulling a folded sheet of heavy cream paper from the blue binder.

He slid the drawer shut with a silent, practiced push.

“I have it,” Ramiro’s voice came through the earpiece, muffled and thin.

“The terrace door,” my father commanded. “Do not use the main hall.”

We watched Ramiro slip behind the heavy velvet drapes of the study window.

A second later, the study door opened.

Patricia stepped into the dark room.

She did not turn on the overhead lights.

Instead, she used the flashlight on her phone, casting a sharp beam across the polished wood floor.

She walked straight to the desk.

My father’s hand clenched into a fist on the armrest.

Patricia rubbed her hand across the top of the desk, checking the alignment of the leather blotter.

She did not open the drawer.

She simply stood there for a moment, her face twisted into a cold, satisfied smile that I had never seen her wear in front of my father.