Silence, he had learned, could hide anything—pain, lies, decay. It had settled into his mansion after his wife’s death like a permanent guest, spreading from room to room until even the walls seemed to whisper less. The clocks still ticked, the staff still moved, the children still breathed… but life, real life, had withdrawn quietly, leaving behind something polished and hollow.

Finally, she looked down at the children, stroked their heads, and said in an almost inaudible voice:

—Because I did know her.

Roberto’s hands froze.

—That’s impossible.

“No,” she whispered. “It isn’t.”

Gertrudis let out a short, dry laugh.

—That’s a lie. A miserable lie. We hired her because she needed a job. That’s all.

Elena looked up.

And for the first time, she no longer seemed scared.

She looked tired.

Very tired.

“You didn’t hire me,” he told Gertrudis without taking his eyes off Roberto. “You made me come here.”

The housekeeper paled.