Beatriz was not in our bedroom.

Her handbag was gone.

Her car keys were gone from the hook by the door.

She had left sometime while I was in the study with Marcos, and she had not said where she was going.

I stood in the doorway of our bedroom for a moment.

Then I walked to her wardrobe and opened it.

The box was on the upper shelf, pushed to the back behind a row of folded scarves.

It was a dark green document box, the kind with a clasp lid.

I lifted it down and carried it to the bed.

Inside were documents.

Personal ones.

A passport I hadn't seen before — Beatriz's photograph, but a different name.

A Uruguayan name.

Below that, a folded letter in Spanish, handwritten, from someone named Tomás.

Below that, a set of bank statements for an account I had never seen, held at a private bank in Gibraltar.

I sat down on the edge of the bed and read slowly.

The account had been opened fourteen months ago — two months after our wedding.

The balance was significant.

Not enormous by the standards of my company, but significant for a private account held in a name I didn't recognize.

Transfers came in regularly.

Small amounts, spaced out.

Nothing that would trigger automatic review.

All from a holding company registered in Malta.

I turned the statement over.

On the back, in Beatriz's handwriting, was a series of dates and amounts.

Property addresses I recognized.

Three of them were assets I had transferred into joint ownership during the first year of our marriage, at her suggestion, as a gesture of commitment.

I set the statements down and picked up the letter from Tomás.

It was dated eight months ago.

The handwriting was cramped and fast.

My Spanish was good enough to read it without difficulty.

*Everything is in place.

The timeline holds as long as you maintain the position.

The property transfers are the key.

Once the third one is registered, the structure is clean.

Don't push for the fourth — it will draw attention.

Two more years should be enough.

Be patient.

You've done this before.*

I read it twice.

*You've done this before.*

I set the letter on the bed beside the statements.

I picked up my phone and called Señora Vidal back.

She answered immediately.

"I was about to go to sleep."

"I found something," I said.

"I need you to run a search tonight.

A name — Tomás.

Likely connected to a holding company in Malta.

And I need a full background check on Beatriz.

Not just the standard one we ran before the wedding.

A deep one.

International."

Silence on the line.

"How deep?" she said.

"The passport in this box has a different name on it."

Another silence.

Longer.

"I'll call my investigator now," she said.

"Don't touch anything else in that box.

Photograph everything in place before you move it."

"Already done."

"Good." A pause.

"Marcos told me about the footage when I called him for the legal copies.

I want you to know — what you have is already strong.

Whatever is in that box may make it stronger.

But it may also make it more complicated."

"How so?"

"If she has done this before," Señora Vidal said carefully, "then there are other people involved.

And other people means other interests.

Some of them may not want this to come to light."

I looked at the letter on the bed.

*You've done this before.*

"I understand," I said.

"Be careful tonight.

Don't confront her when she comes back.

Let her think you don't know about the box."

"She told Isabella she would use it against me."

A beat of silence.

"She used your daughter as leverage."

"Yes."

"Then we move quickly." Her voice had changed.

Señora Vidal had represented my company for nine years.

I had heard her use that tone in exactly two previous situations, both of which had ended badly for the other party.

"I'll have something for you by morning.

Eight o'clock still stands."

She hung up.

I photographed every document in the box.

Then I replaced them exactly as I had found them, put the box back on the shelf, and closed the wardrobe.

I went to the bathroom and washed my hands.

I looked at myself in the mirror for a moment.

Four years.

I had known this woman for four years.

I thought about the night I proposed.

A restaurant in Seville, a ring I had spent three weeks choosing, Isabella sitting across the table with a gap-toothed smile because she had lost a tooth that morning and thought it was the funniest possible timing.

Beatriz had cried.

Real tears, I had thought.

I turned off the bathroom light.

Downstairs, the front door opened.

Beatriz was home.