“This week?” I asked.

My voice didn’t come out like a voice. It came out like air.

Lara breathed deeply on the other end.

“There’s an appointment scheduled for tomorrow at ten. It says ‘signature verification.’ And there’s an address in Rome, Georgia.”

I stood by the bed, staring at the new door the locksmith had just installed. The shiny lock seemed to mock me. I had locked the house, but Emmett had been opening drawers in my life for months.

“Don’t touch anything,” I said.

“Valeria, there are police outside. Emmett is screaming that I robbed him.”

“Don’t touch anything,” I repeated. “Tell them that folder is mine. Tell them I’m on my way.”

I put on jeans, a sweatshirt, and sneakers without socks. I grabbed my purse, my ID, the keys, and the pepper spray I’d bought once out of fear of public transit and never used. Before leaving, I looked at my living room.

For the first time, I saw it as a crime scene.

The gap in the bookshelf where my grandmother’s box used to be. The desk drawer left slightly ajar. The envelope where I kept my pay stubs, now empty.

My eyes burned.

Not because of Emmett.

Because of me.

Because of all the times I left his hands near my things, believing that love was trust, while he was learning my routines the way one studies a lock.

I drove back to my house in Coyoacán.

The early morning was cold. I passed by a nearly empty Central Avenue, by shuttered market stalls, by a popcorn vendor pushing his cart like a ghost with a whistle. Chicago at that hour seemed enormous and lonely, as if every window hid a tragedy that no one could quite tell.

When I reached Lara’s street, there was a squad car, an ambulance, and three neighbors in bathrobes pretending to water their plants.

Emmett was sitting on the curb.

Not sprawled out.

Not passed out.

Sitting.

Wrapped in a thermal blanket, wearing the victim face he always pulled out when someone confronted him. When he saw me, he tried to stand up.

“Val, finally. Tell them it’s a misunderstanding.”

A police officer stopped him with a hand.

“Stay seated.”

Emmett looked at me as if I were the one to blame for his public shame.

“Are you seriously going to do this?”

I walked past him.

I didn’t answer.

Lara opened the door before I could knock. Her hair was half-pulled back, her face scrubbed of makeup, her eyes red. She didn’t look like the femme fatale I had imagined so many nights while Emmett smiled at his phone.

She looked like another fool waking up with a jolt.

“He’s in the living room,” she said.

I went in.

The boxes I had left were open. Emmett’s clothes were scattered on the floor—sneakers, cables, colognes, papers. On a low table lay the gray folder.

My name written in black marker:

VALERIA MONTES RIVERA.

I felt nauseous.

Lara handed me some plastic kitchen gloves.

“I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to get anything dirty.”

I looked at her for the first time without hatred.

“Thank you.”

I opened the folder.

There were copies of my ID, front and back. My Social Security number. Utility bills. Bank statements. Pay stubs. Photos of my signature taken from old documents.

And the application.

$48,000.

Personal loan.

A finance company I didn’t recognize.

My supposed signature on every page.

My hands shook, but I kept checking. Behind it was a promissory note. Then an authorization form for a credit bureau inquiry. Then a beneficiary sheet where Emmett appeared as my “trusted contact.”

I let out a dry laugh.

“How thoughtful.”

Lara brought her hand to her throat.