She had crossed into a version of her life she had never been shown.

For the first twenty minutes, he spoke only enough to guide her through the silence.

Roberto had updated his will twice in the last year.

The plane ticket had been purchased months before his death.

Instructions had been left with dates, names, signatures, and contingencies.

If Teresa refused to travel, Moisés said, he had been instructed to wait thirty days and try again.

If her children attempted to interfere, there were additional documents prepared.

If Teresa arrived, he was to bring her directly to a property outside the city and place in her hands something Roberto had written only for her.

Teresa turned to the window so Moisés would not see how her mouth trembled.

Only for her.

All those nights she had changed bed linens, measured pills, washed damp cloths in the sink, and rubbed her husband’s shoulders while he apologized for being a burden—during all that time he had been making plans she knew nothing about.

At last she asked the question that had been burning under everything else.