Inside were the signed declarations from the offshore trustees in the Bahamas.

There were also the custody agreements I had drafted three months ago.

They were unsigned.

I laid them out on the mahogany desk, side by side.

I sat in the dark for two hours, watching the clock on the mantelpiece.

At four in the afternoon, the intercom on the desk buzzed.

“Senora,” Lucas’s voice came through, distorted by static. “A black Mercedes has just pulled up to the gate.”

“Is it him?” I asked.

“Yes. Alvaro Montero.”

“Is he alone?”

“Yes,” Lucas said. “He is refusing to leave. He is hitting the horn.”

“Let him in,” I said.

“Are you sure?” Lucas asked.

“Yes,” I said. “Open the gate, Lucas. Let him drive up to the house.”

I stood up and smoothed down my wool sweater.

I walked to the front door and waited in the cold stone vestibule.

Through the glass panels of the door, I saw the headlights of his car cut through the gray mist.

The tires crunched loudly on the wet gravel.

The car stopped inches from my own.