It was the firm representing the state prosecutor’s office in Madrid.

I looked from the screen to Lucía’s face.

Her eyes were bright with unshed tears, and her lips were trembling.

“You spoke to them,” I said.

The room went very cold.

The rain outside beat against the glass, a steady, relentless drumming.

She did not deny it.

She just stood there, her hands clasped tightly in front of her.

“I had to do it, Inés,” she whispered.

The phone stopped vibrating, then immediately began to ring again.

The phone continued to buzz against my palm, a cold piece of glass and metal that felt heavier with every second.

I looked down at the screen.

The name of the prosecutor’s liaison office was still flashing.

“Answer it,” I said.

My voice sounded flat, even to my own ears.

Lucía did not move.

She stood in the center of her perfect, minimalist living room, her shoulders hunched.

The rain outside seemed to grow louder, washing over the terrace overlooking the Barcelona skyline.

“I cannot,” she whispered.

“You can, and you will,” I said, stepping closer to her.