I picked up a silver pen from the tray and placed it on top of the blue folder.

“Sign the custody papers,” I said.

“You planned this from the very beginning,” he said, looking at the pen.

“I planned it the day I found the apartment key in your pocket,” I said.

“The apartment in Barcelona,” he said.

“Yes,” I said. “I knew then that I could never trust you with my life, or the lives of my children.”

He looked at the door, then back at me.

“If I sign this, I lose them forever,” he said.

“You lost them when you decided to be a criminal, Alvaro,” I said.

“I did it for the family,” he said.

“Do not lie to me,” I said. “You did it for your own ego.”

The knocker sounded again, louder this time.

A man’s voice called out from the courtyard, muffled by the thick wood of the door.

“Alvaro Montero,” the voice called. “Open the door.”

He looked at the pen again, his fingers twitching.

“If I sign, you keep the Valencia papers quiet?” he asked.