He would receive the video of his children only when his signature was finalized on that document.

But first, I had to understand what Lucía had brought to Madrid.

I grabbed my dark wool coat, pulled it over my shoulders, and locked the apartment door behind me.

The stairwell smelled of damp plaster and old wax.

Outside, the Madrid night air was sharp and wet.

The rain was thin, like a cold mist that clung to my eyelashes as I walked.

I turned the corner onto Calle de Atocha, keeping my head down.

The neon sign of a late-night pharmacy cast a red glow over the puddles on the pavement.

I slipped through the glass doors of the small hotel.

The lobby was empty, the air thick with the smell of floor polish and stale coffee.

The night clerk did not look up from his computer screen as I walked past the desk toward the stairs.

I climbed to the third floor, my damp boots silent on the worn green carpet.

Room 302 was at the far end of the narrow hallway.