I waited until they left the room. When I heard their footsteps descending the stairs, I spat the pill out and wrapped it in a tissue. Then, slowly, my hands trembling, I picked up my phone and turned on the recorder. I crept out of bed and went to the door. From the hallway, I could hear them more clearly.
“We need Elena’s signature on the sale, and as soon as possible,” Lucía said.
“I can get it,” Javier replied. “Tomorrow I’ll tell her they’re just insurance documents. If she’s half asleep, she’ll sign wherever I tell her to.”
“What if she suspects something?”
There was a long silence. Then her voice sounded lower, drier.
“Then we’ll call a friend of Arturo’s. The psychiatrist. A report, a crisis, temporary admission. No one doubts a woman when people already call her unstable.”
I put my hand to my mouth to stifle a sob. It was all there: the plan, the manipulation, the scheme to leave me homeless, penniless, and without any credibility. I kept recording for several more minutes, until I heard the sound of glasses clinking and a printer turning on in the office.
I retreated to the bedroom and carefully closed the door. I had to act immediately, but without letting them know I was onto them. I opened my phone and sent three quick messages: one to Marta, my best friend; another to Sergio, my father’s lawyer; and another to my cousin Raquel, a Civil Guard officer stationed in another city. I simply wrote: “I’m in danger. Javier is drugging me. I have a recording. If I don’t answer before 10 a.m. tomorrow, come to my house or call the police.”
Then I hid the recording in the cloud, forwarded the files to an email address Javier didn’t know existed, and tucked the pill into a small bag inside the lining of my purse. The hardest part was still to come: surviving breakfast and pretending I was still the docile, confused wife he thought he controlled.
At seven in the morning, Javier entered the spotless kitchen, smiling, carrying freshly made coffee and a white folder in his hand.
