It was a stupid mistake.

Matthew was brilliant, but he was not a professional operative. He was a frightened young man.

“He wanted to make sure the kids were safe,” I said.

“The kids are my heirs,” Alvaro said. “They belong in Madrid. With me.”

“They are terrified of you,” I said.

“They will forget,” Alvaro said. “Children have short memories.”

Behind him, I heard the sound of a chair scraping against the floorboards.

“Tell her, Matthew,” Alvaro commanded.

There was a long silence on the line.

I waited, my hand pressing the phone harder against my ear.

“Inés,” Matthew’s voice was cracked and raw. “I’m sorry.”

“What did they do to you, Matthew?” I asked.

“Nothing he didn’t bring on himself,” Alvaro interrupted, his voice distant as if he had pulled the phone away.

I heard the sound of footsteps on hardwood.

“He had files, Inés,” Alvaro said. “Files on my desk right now. Old court cases from five years ago.”

I closed my eyes.

The past was catching up, folding in on us like a collapsing house.