At 3:16 a.m., my husband texted me: I married Valeria. I’ve been sleeping with her for ten months. You’re boring and pathetic.” I read the message four times, sitting on the living room couch with the TV on mute, blue light washing over my face like something colder than a slap

The younger officer photographed the documents with his body camera angled downward.

Outside, Doña Lupita had lowered her voice but not her ambition.

“That woman has always been cold,” she told a neighbor. “My son needed warmth. Is that a crime?”

I looked through the open doorway.

Valeria stood beside Rodrigo with her arms folded and chin raised.

She thought she had won something.

Poor thing.

She had married a man who believed passwords were power.

The officer closed the folder.

“Señora Salgado, these documents appear to support your statement. This is your property.”

Rodrigo heard him.

“What?” He stepped forward again. “No. That’s not—look, we’ve been married for ten years. I live here.”

“Living here doesn’t make it yours,” I said.

He pointed at me.

“You can’t keep my belongings.”