I called my lawyer.
Victor Salazar answered on the second ring. His voice was rough with sleep or whiskey.
“Amara? Do you know what time it is?”
“Yes,” I said. “I need you awake.”
There was a pause.
Then his tone changed.
“What happened?”
“My husband married another woman.”
Silence.
Then, very slowly, Victor said, “Say that again.”
“My husband married another woman. I want every account reviewed. Every property title. Every transfer. Every signature. I want to know what belongs to me, what he touched, what he forged, and what he thinks he can take.”
Victor inhaled.
“Amara, listen carefully. Do not confront him yet.”
“I’m not going to confront him.”
“What are you going to do?”
I looked out over Mexico City, all those lights glittering below me like a city made of knives.
“I’m going to let him come home.”
The next morning, I did not go to the office.
For the first time in eleven years, I canceled every meeting.
My assistant, Clara, called three times before I answered.
“Are you sick?” she asked.
“No.”
“Is everything okay?”
“No.”
That was all I said.
By noon, Victor was sitting across from me in my dining room with two other lawyers, a forensic accountant, and a woman named Isabel who introduced herself as a specialist in asset protection.
