The sun hit the mahogany desk in the study in Zapopan at nine the next morning.

Doña Victoria stood beside my open desk drawer, holding a pink carbon bank transfer slip between her thumb and forefinger.

“I was looking for airmail stamps,” Doña Victoria said, her voice dripping with false warmth.

She flicked her silk neck scarf with one clipped finger and held the paper up to the morning light coming through the tall window.

“Fifty thousand dollars,” she said, reading the typed line across the middle.

“Where did you get a sum like this, Elena?”