So you text Nina.
Didn’t blow it up. Need proof first.
Her reply comes almost instantly.
Good. Can you get access to his laptop or tablet tonight?
Maybe.
Look for synced messages, email receipts, cloud photos, hidden notes, rideshares, hotel confirmations, banking. Take pictures with your phone if needed. Do not forward from shared accounts unless safe.
You lock the phone and inhale once, deeply.
Then someone knocks.
It is Mateo.
He leans against the doorframe after you let him in, arms folded, brows drawn. As children, Mateo used to notice storms before anyone else did. He was the one who knew when your father had a bad business quarter, when your mother was crying in the laundry room, when you were pretending a bully at school was “just annoying” instead of cruel. Some people are born with radar for damage.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
“Nothing.”
“Lucía.” He shuts the door behind him. “Don’t insult my intelligence.”
You look at your brother and feel, suddenly, dangerously, the urge to collapse.
Instead you say, “If I tell you something, you can’t go nuclear before I have what I need.”
His jaw sets. “That depends.”
“It’s Álvaro.”
Mateo’s eyes harden immediately.
“And Paula,” you add.
For one second he says nothing. Then he lets out a laugh so cold it barely qualifies as sound.
“You’re kidding.”
You shake your head.
His hands flex at his sides. “How long?”
“I don’t know for sure. Long enough to get sloppy.”
“And they’re both here. In this house.”
“Yes.”
He turns away, then back, like violence is pacing inside him looking for a door. Mateo has always loved you with the uncomplicated ferocity of a boy who learned early that the world liked pretty lies more than quiet truth, and who decided that if truth was all he had, he would at least defend it. Seeing his face now almost breaks the last of your composure.
“I need proof,” you say. “And maybe there’s money missing too.”
That stops him.
“How much?”
“Not sure yet.”
He exhales through his nose. “Tell me what you need.”
So you do.
An hour later, people begin leaving.
There are hugs at the door, leftover containers distributed, promises to do brunch soon, reminders about doctor appointments and dog sitters and somebody’s delayed kitchen remodel. The whole family exits in little domestic fragments until finally only your parents, Mateo, Claire, you, and Álvaro remain. Paula is one of the last to put on her coat.
At the door, she turns to you with glassy eyes.
“Can we talk tomorrow?”
You hold her gaze.
“We’ll talk when I decide we talk.”
Mateo, standing behind you, says pleasantly, “Drive safe, Paula.”
She hears the threat in how calm he sounds.
When she leaves, the house seems to exhale.
Your mother begins collecting dessert plates, complaining cheerfully about how much cleanup hosting creates. Your father carries glasses into the kitchen. Claire offers to help. Mateo catches your eye and tilts his head very slightly toward the hallway.
Now.
You tell Álvaro that you’re staying to help your mother for a while and that Mateo offered to give him a ride home if he doesn’t want to wait. Álvaro resists at first, but your mother jumps in, saying you always stay late after family dinners and he should go rest if he wants. Social habits, once again, become camouflage.
Mateo drives him away.
Claire starts the dishwasher with your mother. Your father steps outside to bring in a folding table from the patio. For six minutes, maybe seven, the hallway upstairs is empty.
You move.
Your parents’ guest room has become the place where you and Álvaro usually stay when dinners run late or holiday weather is bad. His overnight bag is there because he planned to spend the night after a couple more drinks. You unzip it and pull out his tablet from beneath a folded sweater.
Please still be stupid, you think.
He is.
The tablet unlocks with the same six-digit code he has used for years, the code made from your wedding date. For a second the irony is so filthy it almost makes you dizzy. Then you open the messaging apps, the mail, the photo backups, the bank. What spills out in the next ten minutes is enough to rearrange your understanding of the last year.
There are hotel receipts. Rideshare confirmations. Photos never meant for your eyes, some intimate, some ordinary, which somehow feel worse. Selfies in parked cars. A picture of Paula’s hand on a restaurant table with the caption Miss your mouth already. Messages complaining about the burden of “keeping things straight” at family events. Messages about you.
