The Atlantic was a dark, thrashing mass to my left, barely visible through the sea fog.

The gates of the property appeared suddenly out of the mist.

They were high, wrought-iron barriers, set into a thick stone wall covered in lichen.

I pressed the remote on my visor.

The gates swung open with a heavy, mechanical groan, then clicked shut behind me.

Two men in dark waterproof jackets stepped out from the small stone lodge inside the entrance.

One of them was Lucas, a retired national police officer I had hired through an agency in Santiago.

He walked to my window, water dripping from the brim of his cap.

“Senora Valcarcel,” he said, nodding.

“Is everything quiet, Lucas?” I asked, lowering the glass an inch.

“We checked the perimeter an hour ago,” he said. “The cameras are fully operational.”

“Keep the main gate locked,” I said. “Do not let anyone in without calling me first.”

“Understood,” Lucas replied, tapping the radio on his chest.

I drove up the gravel path, past the dripping eucalyptus trees, and parked in front of the house.