The night everything collapsed, Ernesto Villaseñor turned off the kitchen lights, grabbed his daughter by the shoulders, and spoke to her with a firmness she had never heard from him before.

—Get under the table, Mariana. No matter what happens, even if you hear your name, do not come out.

Mariana had just arrived from Mexico City to the family home in Querétaro. She had driven for nearly three hours because her father had left her a strange message: "Come alone. Don't tell Julián anything."

Ernesto was 66 years old, had worked as an industrial electrician, and had spent his whole life solving problems without ever raising his voice. That was why, when he closed the curtains and locked the door, Mariana understood that this was no exaggeration.

—Dad, tell me what is going on.

—Later. Right now, trust me.

The old parota wood table occupied the center of the kitchen. It had belonged to her mother, who passed away four years ago, and still bore small marks from knives, hot mugs, and school homework.

Mariana crawled underneath, hugged her knees, and tried to control her breathing.

Ernesto turned on the television in the living room and left a soccer match playing at high volume.

A few minutes later, someone knocked three times.

Mariana’s heart raced as she recognized the footsteps. They were firm, unhurried, accompanied by the jingle of metal keys.

Julián Márquez, her husband of 12 years, walked into the house as if it were his own.

—Don Ernesto, I'm glad you didn't change your mind—he said in his polite real estate agent tone—. Today we can get this sorted out.

Mariana felt a chill run down her spine.

Julián had told her he would spend the night in San Luis Potosí closing a sale. He had even sent her a photo from a supposed hotel. Now he was sitting right above her, talking in secret with her father.

Ernesto poured two coffees.

—Explain the company thing to me again—he requested.

Julián opened a wine-colored folder.

—The house is transferred to Administración Patrimonial del Centro. You keep the right to live here, Mariana doesn't pay taxes afterward, and everyone is protected.

The house was in a traditional neighborhood in Querétaro. It wasn't luxurious, but it was debt-free and worth several million. Ernesto had paid for it by working double shifts and had cared for his wife there during her illness.

—Who owns that company?—Ernesto asked.

—A private trust.

—And why isn't Mariana's name on it?

Julián remained silent for a few seconds.

—Because she gets nervous with these topics. It's better to present everything to her once it's already done.

Underneath the table, Mariana gritted her teeth.

She was an accountant. She didn't "get nervous" with documents. Julián had kept her out of it because he knew she would spot the trap.

Ernesto pulled out another paper.

—You brought this, too.

Julián lowered his voice.

—It's an evaluation of your mental capacity. You forget dates, leave doors open, and live alone. If you cooperate, no one will bother you. If not, I'll ask a judge to appoint a guardian, and then you'll lose control of your accounts and this house.

Mariana felt her nails digging into her palms.

Her father was completely lucid.

Julián was willing to declare him incompetent just to get his hands on their assets.

—You have until tomorrow—he continued—. You sign nicely, or your daughter will have to choose between putting you in a nursing home or watching me handle everything.

Ernesto set his coffee cup down in front of him.

—And if I refuse?

Julián smiled.

—Then we'll make it look like you can no longer make your own decisions.