Tomás pulled the gray jacket from a storage bin. You put it on over your shirt, then grabbed a wide-brim gardening hat and lowered it over your face.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Giving the driver a reason to wait.”
You walked toward the side path, head low, moving like one of the groundskeepers. At the main entrance, the black sedán was still idling outside the gate. The fake driver stood beside the rear door, one hand near his jacket.
Not a chauffeur.
A hired man wearing a uniform.
Valeria stood near the fountain, phone pressed to her ear. Her lover had disappeared.
You could hear her voice.
“He’s somewhere in the house. Find him.”
Find him.
Not I’m worried.
Not call security.
Find him.
You stopped behind a column.
The fake driver looked impatient now. He checked his watch, then touched his ear as if listening through an earpiece.
So there were more people.
You scanned the driveway.
A white delivery van sat half a block away. Too still. A motorcycle was parked near the corner with a man pretending to smoke. One of your own security guards stood by the gate, but his posture was wrong.
Relaxed.
Too relaxed.
How many had she bought?
Your phone buzzed again.
Daniela.
Police 7 min. Need visual confirmation of fake driver + plate. Can you record safely?
You opened your camera and began recording from behind the column.
The plate was visible.
The driver’s face turned once toward the gate camera.
Good.
Then Valeria saw you.
Not your face.
Your shoes.
You had changed the jacket and hat, but not your shoes. Italian leather, polished black, impossible to mistake for a gardener’s boots.
Her eyes snapped up.
For one terrible second, your wife stared directly at you.
Then she smiled.
