Chapter 8

Ivo Sandoval did not sleep that night.

He sat on the floor of his living room, his back against the sofa, the envelope open on the coffee table, rereading the contents repeatedly as if repeating the act could change its meaning. The handwriting was familiar to him in a way that gave him chills, although he couldn't locate exactly where he had seen it before. It wasn't his own handwriting — he knew that for sure — but there was something in the inclination of the strokes, in the particular way of closing the "a's" and the "o's," that reminded him of a document he had handled a long time ago, perhaps in the consulting firm, perhaps in a completely different place.

The letter did not contain erotic questions such as those that—according to the little he had been able to glean from listening to half-hearted conversations between Irene and the detective—his boss and Castel had received. This one was different. Colder More direct.

"I know you watch her. I know that you have been watching her for eighteen months without her noticing it at all, cataloguing every gesture, every detail of her private life that seeps into office conversations. I watch it too, Ivo. But I, unlike you, know exactly what to do with what I see. You'll soon know what it's like to be watched in the same way."

Ivo folded the letter with trembling hands and put it back in the envelope, as if physically hiding it might undo the fact that he had read it. He got up, checked the lock on his door, acquired in a matter of minutes—and poured himself a glass of whiskey that he had no intention of drinking, only of holding in his hands as if he needed something tangible to hold onto.

It was true that he was watching her. He had never allowed himself to think of it in such crude terms, but now, forced to confront him about the letter, he could no longer pretend that his attention to Irene Voss was merely that of a diligent assistant. She'd memorized her routines, her expressions when something made her uncomfortable, the way she pulled her hair up behind her left ear when she focused on a difficult file. She had noticed, with a twinge of something she preferred not to name, the tension that had settled between her and Detective Castel since the previous week, the way in which they both seemed to share a silent language that he could not decipher.

But observing was not the same as killing. Observing was not the same as writing letters that described a woman's most private fantasies, that photographed intimate moments without her consent, that left corpses with poetry on their lips.

Or at least that's what I wanted to believe.

The next morning, he arrived at the office twenty minutes before his usual time, with deep dark circles under his eyes and a restlessness that he could not completely hide, despite his efforts. Irene noticed it immediately, of course she did, it was her job to notice such things—and for a moment, as she watched him from the threshold of her office, Ivo felt that his boss's gaze contained something other than the usual concern. Something more like the clinical evaluation that she reserved for her study subjects.

"Ivo, you look bad. Did you sleep last night?

"Not much. He didn't plan to say more, but the words came out before he could contain them, pushed by the weight of the letter he carried in the inside pocket of his jacket, folded against his chest like a confession he didn't know how to make. Dr. Voss, may I speak to you for a moment? Alone.

Irene hesitated for just a fraction of a second, a hesitation that Ivo couldn't interpret, before nodding and gesturing for her to enter his office. He closed the door behind him, and for the first time in eighteen months of working together, Ivo felt the full weight of the hierarchical and professional distance that had always existed between them but rarely manifested itself in such a tangible way.

"What's wrong?"

He took the envelope out of his pocket, his hands still trembling, and laid it on the desk between them.

"Last night I found this under my door.

Irene looked at the envelope without immediately touching it, and something in her expression—a sudden stiffness, an almost imperceptible hardening of the jaw—confirmed to Ivo that she already knew exactly what it was, that she recognized the paper, the texture, perhaps even the handwriting before reading a single word.

"Did you open it?"

"Yes. Ivo ran a hand through his hair, anxiety showing in every gesture. Dr. Voss, I know something is going on. I know Detective Castel has been coming in more often than usual for "routine questions" that don't seem so routine. And now this. I need you to tell me what's going on, because if I'm honest, I'm starting to think that someone thinks I have something to do with Miranda's death.

Irene sat down, taking the envelope with two fingers, with the same clinical care she applied to any potential evidence, and opened it slowly to read the contents. Ivo watched her face as she read, looking for any sign of what she thought, but years of professional training had given Irene an almost perfect ability to hide her reactions when she needed to.

"Do you recognize the handwriting?" She asked at last, looking up.

"I'm not sure. There is something familiar, but I can't locate where it comes from. Ivo slumped into the chair in front of the desk, the nervous energy that normally characterized him replaced by genuine exhaustion. Dr. Voss, please. Tell me the truth. Am I suspicious of something?

The question hung in the air of the office, and Irene took her time before answering, weighing how much she could reveal without compromising Castel's investigation, without warning a possible culprit that he was being watched, but also aware that in front of her was a genuinely terrified man, or an extraordinarily skilled actor, and that his answer could determine which of the two things was true.