Javier lowered the letter and turned one more page.

“The following items,” he said, his voice returning to its formal legal register, “were purchased using funds removed without authorization from accounts belonging to the deceased: one gold bracelet, one designer handbag, airline tickets to Cartagena, hotel charges, and a direct transfer of eleven thousand dollars to Valeria Cruz.

Ms.

Cruz is hereby notified that the trust will seek immediate recovery.”

A stunned silence dropped over the church.

The woman in red—Valeria, apparently—stared at Javier, then at Álvaro.

“You told me those gifts were from your business bonus.”

Álvaro hissed at her to be quiet.

That was when I saw two detectives rise from the last pew.

Until that moment, I had not noticed them.

They were dressed in dark suits, not uniforms, and had blended into the crowd of mourners.

They began walking forward, unhurried but purposeful.

Javier spoke before the room could fully register what was happening.

“In accordance with my client’s instructions, Annex D was delivered to the police immediately after her death.

The investigation into the collision that killed Lucía Serrano has been reopened as a criminal matter.”

My heart thudded so hard it hurt.

I had been told the crash was a tragic accident.

A brake failure.

A terrible stroke of fate on a wet road as Lucía drove home from a prenatal appointment.

She had gone into emergency surgery after the impact.

Mateo had been delivered alive.

Lucía had never regained full consciousness.

Now Detective Elena Robles stepped into the aisle and addressed Álvaro directly.

“Mr.

Serrano, we have evidence that the brake line on your wife’s vehicle was deliberately compromised,” she said.

“We also have phone records, insurance inquiries made by you seventy-two hours before the collision, and financial transfers connecting you to an unlicensed mechanic who has agreed to cooperate.

We need you to come with us.”

Álvaro laughed, but the sound that came out of him was thin and wrong.

“This is insane.

At her funeral?”

“You should be grateful it waited this long,” Detective Robles said.

He took a step back.

Then another.

The church, which had seemed so vast a few minutes earlier, suddenly looked too small to contain what was happening.

Valeria grabbed his sleeve.

“What did she mean, insurance inquiries?” she asked, her voice rising.

“Álvaro, what did you do?”

He shook her off.

“Nothing,” he snapped.

“Don’t start this now.”

But panic does strange things to vanity.

Valeria’s fear overpowered her loyalty in a matter of seconds.

“He told me the policy was finally going to clear,” she blurted, too loud for anyone to pretend not to hear.

“He said once the money came through we could leave the city.

He told me she’d never fight him again.

I thought he meant the divorce.

I swear to God, I thought he meant the divorce.”

The entire church seemed to tilt.

Álvaro lunged toward her, not enough to touch her but enough that both detectives moved at once.

They caught his arms, turned him, and secured him before he could do anything more than shout.

He began yelling then—at the detectives, at Javier, at Valeria, at me.

He called Lucía unstable.

He called the will fake.

He said I had poisoned her against him.

He shouted that everyone