“I can show you the ownership papers,” I told the officers. “The house belongs to me. I bought it before the marriage. I paid the mortgage. The deed is only in my name.”
The younger officer blinked.
Doña Lupita stopped yelling for half a second.
Then the SUV doors opened.
Rodrigo stepped out first.
He wore the same navy blazer he used whenever he wanted people to think he mattered. The same expensive shoes I had bought him two Christmases earlier. The same face—except this morning, it did not show guilt or shame.
It showed annoyance.
As if I had inconvenienced him.
Valeria got out from the passenger seat.
She was dressed in white.
Not a wedding dress. Worse. A soft linen jumpsuit, expensive sandals, gold hoops, and glossy hair falling down her back like a shampoo advertisement. A ring flashed on her left hand in the morning light.
For one second, I stared at it, and something inside my chest made a small, dry sound.
Then Rodrigo saw the chain on the door.
His expression changed.
“Mariana,” he said carefully, like someone trying to calm an animal. “Open the door.”
“No.”
The older officer looked at him.
“You’re the husband?”
Rodrigo gave him the smile he used with receptionists and bank managers.
“Yes. Rodrigo Salgado.”
“No,” I said. “Rodrigo Méndez. Salgado is mine.”
The officer glanced between us.
Rodrigo’s smile stiffened.
Valeria moved closer to him. She looked me up and down, taking in my robe, bare feet, and unmade face. Then her mouth curved.
That smile woke me up more effectively than coffee ever could.
“Officers,” Rodrigo said, “my wife is having some kind of episode. She found out about our separation and reacted irrationally. She changed the locks while I was away on business. My mother got worried.”
“Your mother knew you were in Cancún?” I asked.
He ignored me.
“She has my belongings inside,” he continued. “Important documents. Clothes. My work laptop. We need to go in.”
“We?” I asked.
Valeria’s smile sharpened.
