“You accepted the gifts, Lucía,” I said. “You accepted this apartment.”

“I did not know where the money came from,” she said. “He told me it was his personal fortune.”

As a lawyer, I knew that excuse would hold no water in a Spanish court.

“The prosecutor will not care what he told you,” I said. “They will care about the bank trail.”

Lucía’s eyes darted to her handbag on the sofa.

She took a deep breath, her chest rising and falling quickly.

The buzzer downstairs rang once more, a long, continuous press that lasted five seconds.

Then, it stopped.

In the silence that followed, my phone buzzed with a text message.

It was from Matthew.

*Alvaro has left the Madrid office,* the message read. *He did not take his car. He left on foot.*

I showed the screen to Lucía.

“Where would he go?” she asked.

“To his lawyers, or to a place where he can hide,” I said. “But he has no money left that he can easily reach.”

I had spent the last six months moving his liquid assets into accounts he could not access.