The mechanism groaned as the elevator began its slow, jerky ascent.

I looked down at the burner phone in my hand.

The screen was still bright with the warning message from Matthew.

Alvaro knew about the apartment in Sarrià.

I typed a quick reply, my fingers stiff from the cold.

*I am ahead of him. Stay quiet.*

I deleted the message log and slipped the phone back into my inner coat pocket.

The elevator stopped with a dull clank.

The hallway of the safehouse was narrow, smelling of old paint and floor wax.

I walked down to apartment 3B and turned the brass key in the lock.

Inside, the living room was small, furnished with a plain beige sofa and a low wooden table.

Tomás had kept his word; the space was clean, and the heavy wool curtains were drawn tight against the Madrid night.

I walked softly down the short corridor to the bedroom.

My two children were asleep under a thick green blanket, their breathing slow and synchronized.

The nanny, Maria, sat in a chair by the window, her face illuminated by the soft glow of a small reading lamp.