Chapter 5

Ivo Sandoval arrived at the office at a quarter past eight, seven minutes late according to the clock at the reception, with a glass of coffee that spilled lightly on his knuckles when he opened the door with his shoulder.

"Excuse me, sorry, the subway..." he said, not even finishing the sentence, as he was accustomed to. She put the glass down on her desk, turned on the computer, and began to organize folders with that scattered energy that Irene had learned to interpret as part of her personality, not as a performance.

Now, however, he sees it differently.

He stood on the doorstep of his own office, pretending to check his phone, as he studied Ivo's every move with the same attention he devoted to the subjects in his profiles. Thirty-one years. Thin, with restless hands, a small scar on his left eyebrow that he had once told her, without her asking, that it was from a fall on a bicycle at the age of twelve. A harmless detail. Or a detail too specific to be spontaneous.

"Ivo."

He raised his head, startled, as if he had not seen her coming, although she had been there for almost a minute.

"Dr. Voss?" I thought that today I had the first consultation at nine.

"Change of plans. I need Miranda Cruz's complete history. All sessions, not just summary notes.

A pause. Almost imperceptible, but there, one more blink before Ivo nodded.

"Of course. Give me a second, it's in the encrypted file.

—How long does it normally take you to access those files?

—It depends. Why?

—Curiosity. Irene smiled, the same professional smile she used to reassure nervous patients, and she realized, with a twinge of discomfort, that she was now dedicating it to someone who worked with her every day. I want to understand the entire process, from when you schedule an appointment to when you archive the session.

Ivo explained it to her in detail, perhaps too much detail, listing each step of the consultant's security protocol as if he were memorizing it as he spoke. Irene made a mental note of every point where security had gaps: passwords shared among the administrative team, backups on a server that did not require double authentication, the habit of leaving physical records in the common filing cabinet during the day.

"Has anyone else ever asked for access to Miranda's files?" he asked, in the most casual tone he could muster.

"Not that I know of. Ivo stopped; his hand suspended over the keyboard. Is something wrong, Dr. Voss? It's been weird since yesterday.

The question caught her off guard. Not because of the content, but because of the precision: since yesterday, not today, not this week. Someone who paid attention to the details of their behavior with a level of granularity that a normal assistant didn't need.

"Stress of the case," he said, and hated how easy the lie came out to him. Nothing more.

Ivo nodded, accepted the explanation without further questions, and returned to his screen. Irene retired to her office under the pretext of reviewing the files she had requested, but instead she dialed Castel's number, the door closed, the voice low.

"I have something," she said when he answered. It is not conclusive. But Ivo noticed a change in my behavior that started yesterday. Before the third letter, before you arrive at my apartment.

"Did you tell him directly?"

"You said I've been "weird since yesterday." Not from today. Since yesterday.

A brief silence on the other end of the line, the sound of Castel processing the information with that methodical calm that Irene was already beginning to recognize as an essential part of her character.

That could mean that he observes it closely in general, which is worrying but not conclusive. Or it could mean that he knows exactly what happened yesterday because he was involved. A pause. I'm going to ask for his work history today, using a channel that leaves no trace into Cruz's investigation. In the meantime, I need you to get something for me.

"What?"

—A sample of his handwriting. Something handwritten, not digital. A message, a note, anything.

Irene looked at the closed door of her office, on the other side of which Ivo was still working, oblivious to the conversation that decided if his life was about to fall apart.

"I can ask you to write down the week's schedules on the board." He always does it by hand.

"Perfect. Take a photo of it discreetly and send it to me.

"And if it coincides?"

The question was suspended between them, heavier than Irene had anticipated when she asked it. Because if it matched, it meant that the person who wrote to him about his most private fantasies, who had photographed the moment Castel brushed his jaw, who knew the inside of his life with surgical precision, was someone he saw every day, whom he had come to consider, if not a friend, at least a trusted presence.

"Then we'll know that the game was always closer than we thought," Castel said. Get the sample, Irene. And be careful how you look at it the rest of the day. If it's him, we can't afford to let him notice.

He hung up without saying goodbye, as was his custom, and Irene stood with the phone in her hand, looking through the frosted glass of her door at the blurred silhouette of Ivo, bent over his desk, oblivious or not to the suspicion that had just been born about him.

He left the office twenty minutes later with a ready-made excuse.

"Ivo, can you write down this week's schedules on board?" It is difficult for me to see them in the system.

"Of course. She got up, took the marker, and began to write in fast, slanted handwriting, which Irene watched with her heart pounding in her ears.

It didn't look like the one in the letters. The inclination was different, more vertical, the letters more rounded.

He felt a relief that he didn't know if it was genuine or if he just wanted to feel it. He took the photo anyway, sent it to Castel with a brief message, and returned to his office with the strange feeling of having dodged something without knowing exactly what.