At 11:47 on a Thursday night, Alejandro Aranda stood in the entrance of his bedroom with a photograph in his hand and wondered whether nine years of marriage could disappear inside one frozen image.
Valeria sat on the edge of their bed beneath the warm glow of a crystal lamp.
Her long blonde hair had fallen loose over one shoulder. An ivory robe covered most of her body, and one hand rested protectively over the curve of her pregnant stomach.
She looked exhausted.
Alejandro had never seen her look guilty before.
That frightened him more than anything.
He raised the photograph.
“Who is he?”
Valeria closed her eyes.
“Alejandro.”
“No.”
His voice was quiet.
“Don’t say my name like that. Answer the question.”
The photograph had arrived at his office that afternoon inside a plain white envelope.
No return address.
No note except five handwritten words.
Ask your wife who he is.
The image had clearly come from one of the security cameras facing the rear entrance of the Aranda mansion.
A man in a dark coat was stepping through the side gate at 2:13 in the morning.
His face was visible.
Middle-aged.
Silver beginning at his temples.
Leather medical bag in one hand.
Alejandro had studied the photograph for hours.
He did not recognize him.
That should have made the situation simpler.
It did not.
When Alejandro came home, he placed the photograph in front of Valeria.
She had gone pale instantly.
He asked who the man was.
She refused to answer.
He asked whether the man had entered the house.
Yes.
Whether she had met him privately.
Yes.
Whether it had happened more than once.
Yes.
Then Alejandro asked the question that had been eating through him ever since.
“Are you having an affair?”
Valeria had looked at him for almost ten seconds.
Then said:
“No.”
Alejandro wanted to believe her.
But belief became difficult when every answer surrounding the denial sounded like betrayal.
Now he stood inside their bedroom while rain streaked the high glass windows behind her.
The city glittered hundreds of feet below.
He held the photograph between two fingers.
“You met him at two in the morning.”
Valeria nodded.
“Yes.”
“In my house.”
“Our house.”
“Fine.”
His jaw tightened.
“Our house.”
She looked down.
Alejandro continued.
“You hid his visits from me.”
“Yes.”
“How many?”
Valeria pressed one palm against the mattress.
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“Four.”
Alejandro stared.
“Four visits?”
“Yes.”
“At night?”
“Mostly.”
He laughed once.
There was nothing amused in it.
“And you still expect me to believe this has nothing to do with another man?”
“It doesn’t.”
“Then explain it.”
“I can’t.”
Alejandro looked at her as if she had spoken in another language.
“You can’t?”
She swallowed.
“I don’t know how.”
“Try.”
Valeria shook her head.
“Not tonight.”
“Especially tonight.”
She looked toward the bedroom door.
That glance bothered him.
Alejandro noticed everything when he was angry.
The smallest movements became evidence.
“You expecting somebody?”
“No.”
“Then why do you keep looking at the door?”
Valeria did not answer.
Alejandro’s stomach tightened.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
She whispered:
“Something that could destroy your family.”
He stared.
“You are my family.”
Tears filled her eyes.
“That’s exactly the problem.”
Before Alejandro could respond, the bedroom door opened.
His mother entered without knocking.
Doña Esther Aranda had always possessed the strange ability to make any room feel like it belonged to her.
She was sixty-eight, elegant, composed, with silver hair arranged perfectly around a face that rarely revealed more emotion than she intended.
Even close to midnight, her dark navy dress looked freshly pressed.
Alejandro’s father came behind her.
Gabriel Aranda was seventy-one, tall, gray-haired, wearing a charcoal suit despite the hour.
They had been staying in the guest wing for several days while their own home underwent renovations.
Alejandro had found the arrangement irritating.
Tonight, he was suddenly grateful they were there.
His mother looked toward Valeria.
Then the photograph.
For one second, something changed in her face.