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

“Mariana,” he said carefully, like someone trying to calm an animal. “Open the door.”

“No.”

The older officer looked at him.

“You’re the husband?”

Rodrigo gave him the smile he used with receptionists and bank managers.

“Yes. Rodrigo Salgado.”

“No,” I said. “Rodrigo Méndez. Salgado is mine.”

The officer glanced between us.

Rodrigo’s smile stiffened.

Valeria moved closer to him. She looked me up and down, taking in my robe, bare feet, and unmade face. Then her mouth curved.

That smile woke me up more effectively than coffee ever could.

“Officers,” Rodrigo said, “my wife is having some kind of episode. She found out about our separation and reacted irrationally. She changed the locks while I was away on business. My mother got worried.”

“Your mother knew you were in Cancún?” I asked.He ignored me.