Not a wedding dress. Worse. A soft linen jumpsuit, expensive sandals, gold hoops, and glossy hair falling down her back like a shampoo advertisement. A ring flashed on her left hand in the morning light.
For one second, I stared at it, and something inside my chest made a small, dry sound.
Then Rodrigo saw the chain on the door.
His expression changed.
“Mariana,” he said carefully, like someone trying to calm an animal. “Open the door.”
“No.”
The older officer looked at him.
“You’re the husband?”
Rodrigo gave him the smile he used with receptionists and bank managers.
“Yes. Rodrigo Salgado.”
