She slid a plain folder across the desk toward me.

“The man in your house,” she said gently, “the man you married.

His fingerprints belong to Santiago Morales.” I sat frozen in a silence so complete I could hear the clock on her wall.

And then she opened a second folder, and her voice changed, went softer and heavier, the way a voice does before it must deliver the worst part.

“Now, Mrs.