“Sir,” the officer said, “did you send this message?”

Rodrigo’s jaw tightened.

“It was private.”

“That isn’t what I asked.”

Valeria touched his arm.

“Rodri, don’t.”

Rodri.

I almost thanked her.

Every wound needs its final drop of poison.

Rodrigo inhaled.

“Yes. But she’s taking it out of context.”

The older officer stared at him for two silent seconds.

Then he looked back at me.

“Señora, may we see the ownership documents?”

“Of course.”

I closed the door, removed the chain, and allowed only the two officers inside.

Rodrigo stepped forward.

I lifted one finger.

“No.”

“This is ridiculous,” he snapped.

The older officer held out his hand.

“You wait outside.”

Rodrigo looked at that hand as though it had insulted him.

I left the officers in the foyer and went to my office.

My office had once been the guest room. Rodrigo used to joke that it looked like a government archive: gray filing cabinets, labeled folders, a shredder, printer, shelves full of tax binders and property records. He thought being organized was a character flaw. He thought paperwork was something boring women liked because they lacked passion.

That morning, boring saved my life.

I pulled the blue folder from the locked cabinet.

The deed.

The original purchase contract.