He knew about the wall safe in the study at the La Moraleja villa.

He knew about the offshore accounts in Andorra that were now empty.

“Drive,” I told the chauffeur.

The van pulled away from the curb and merged into the rainy traffic.

The windshield wipers swept back and forth, making a rhythmic clicking sound.

I looked down at my hands.

The gold wedding band was gone, left on the hospital sink.

Thirty minutes later, my phone vibrated in my lap.

The screen lit up with Alvaro’s name.

He was at the hospital.

I did not answer.

I watched the call go to voicemail.

A text message appeared a moment later.

*Where are you?*

I deleted it.

Then another message arrived, this one from Matthew.

*He is in the room. He found the envelope.*

I stared at the screen as the rain smeared the city lights outside.

The phone rang again, the screen flashing Alvaro’s face in the dark van.

I slid my thumb across the glass to answer.

“Inés,” his voice came through, thick with anger and confusion.

“Where are my children?”

“They are with me, Alvaro,” I said.

“This is a joke,” he said, his breathing heavy. “I am standing in an empty room.”

“Read the papers on the table,” I said.

“You cannot do this. I will have the police search every block in Madrid.”

“You won’t call the police,” I said.

The line went silent for three seconds.

“What did you do?” he whispered.

“Ask Matthew,” I said.

I heard a rustle of paper over the line.

Alvaro’s voice was distant, as if he had pulled the phone away from his ear.

“Matthew,” Alvaro said. “What is she talking about?”

There was a long pause.

I heard the sound of rain outside my window, and the muffled response of Matthew on the other end of the line.