The driver’s side door flung open, and Alvaro stepped out into the rain.

He wasn’t wearing a coat.

His white shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, wet and clinging to his chest.

His hair was plastered to his forehead.

He looked older, his face pale and drawn under the amber security lights of the courtyard.

He strode up the stone steps, his leather shoes slipping slightly on the wet moss.

I pushed the heavy oak door open before he could knock.

He stopped on the threshold, chest heaving.

“Ines,” he said.

He tried to push past me into the warmth of the hall.

I did not step back.

“You are wet, Alvaro,” I said quietly.

“Where are they?” he demanded, looking over my shoulder into the dark interior of the house.

“They are upstairs, sleeping,” I said.

“I am taking them,” he said. “We are leaving. We are going to Portugal.”

“You cannot go to Portugal,” I said. “The courts will have your passport by tomorrow morning.”

He glared at me, his eyes bloodshot.

“You did this,” he whispered. “You and that rat Matthew.”