Not all day. Carmen still hides her as much as possible because jobs like hers do not survive scandal by accident. But children have a way of becoming part of any revolution if you let them into the room. She toddles in with Paco under one arm and solemnly places toy spoons on your desk like offerings. She asks why your wheels don’t have glitter. She learns that your left hand can squeeze hers once if yes, twice if no. On the second evening, she climbs into the footwell of your chair without asking and presses a shiny silver object into your palm.
“Bad man dropped robot,” she says.
It is a flash drive.
For one second, nobody moves.
Carmen’s eyes go wide. Rosa crosses herself. You stare at the little metal stick in your hand and understand immediately that it must have fallen from Mauricio’s briefcase during the chaos that morning. He had been clutching a leather folder and his phone when he stormed in. In all the panic, all the shouting, no one thought about what else might have hit the floor besides the rabbit.
A child did.
That night Villaseñor opens the drive in your study with the curtains still drawn and the lamp turned low.
Inside are scanned property maps, draft asset transfers, private care contracts, and one folder labeled simply Transition. The contents make Carmen sit down hard. Mauricio had already lined up the facility in Cuernavaca. Already priced out your room, private staff, sedation plan, transport schedule. Already budgeted the sale of three non-core tequila holdings once he assumed temporary control. Already included a personal distribution to himself through a shell entity tucked inside the estate continuity papers.
And then there is the audio file.
Mauricio’s voice. Clear. Laughing.
“Once he’s out of the house,” he says to someone who sounds very much like the neurologist, “the old man can disappear politely. The board will breathe easier, the staff will shut up, and nobody will know the difference in six months.”
Silence follows that recording.
Then a second file opens, and you hear the doctor answer, “As long as he keeps presenting as flat, the court won’t push too hard.”
Treviño, listening from the doorway, says only one word.
“Bastards.”
You almost smile.
