Ernesto de la Torre, my former father-in-law. Javier’s father. Owner of half the real-estate sector in Madrid. A man who, two years earlier, had toasted at my wedding and referred to me as “the daughter I never had.”
The daughter who now smelled of smoke, dampness, and defeat.
He stepped closer, looking me up and down. Behind him, at the top of the stairs, I could see the silhouette of his driver standing beside a black SUV with tinted windows.
“Get in the car,” he said, his voice breaking. “They told me you had disappeared. That you had left the country. That…” he clenched his jaw, “…that you were dead.”
I let out a harsh laugh.
“For many people, I am.”
For a few seconds the only sound was the murmur of the river. In his eyes I saw something I didn’t expect: guilt.
“I shouldn’t be here,” I murmured. “Javier… Lucía… they won’t want to hear anything about me.”
The names of my ex-husband and my former best friend hung heavy in the air.
Ernesto shook his head.
