It seeped into the room the way dampness creeps into walls—quietly, patiently, until one day it is everywhere and you can no longer remember what the air used to feel like before it changed.

I picked up the phone from the small table, but just then the screen lit up.

**Alejandro calling.**

I froze.

The phone vibrated in my hand like a trapped animal.

I didn’t answer.

The call was cut off.

A second later a message came in.

**“The meeting was canceled. I’m going back. I’ll be back in two hours.”**

Two hours.

I looked at the open mattress.

The packages.

The photos.

The letter.

Everything was scattered on the floor as if the truth had exploded inside my house.

I panicked.

I dialed 911 with clumsy fingers.

When an operator finally answered, my words got all jumbled up.

I gave him my name.

The address.

I said I had found evidence related to a missing woman.

I said the name Alejandro.

I said Monterrey.

I said blood.

The woman on the other end of the line asked me not to touch anything else.

That she leave the room.