Everyone believed the millionaire’s wife was caring for his sick mother.

The next three days were the longest of my life.

Camila watched me like a hawk.

Every time I entered Doña Consuelo's room, she'd appear minutes later, checking, questioning, making sure I hadn't brought anything extra.

She'd even taken to searching the room after I left.

Once, she found a peppermint I'd left on Doña Consuelo's nightstand—a small thing, wrapped in red paper.

She held it up between two fingers as if it were evidence of a crime.

"What did I tell you?" she hissed.

Doña Consuelo flinched.

"I… I asked her for it," the old woman said, finding her voice. "My throat was dry."

Camila looked from her to me.

"Next time, ask me," she said to Doña Consuelo, her voice sweet but sharp. "Not the help."

She dropped the peppermint into her pocket and left.

That night, I heard Doña Consuelo crying through the wall.

I wanted to go to her. To hold her hand. To tell her everything would be all right.

But I couldn't.

Not yet.

I needed to be smarter.

The next morning, I had an idea.

I was cleaning the study when I noticed Santiago's laptop open on his desk. He'd been reading emails and had stepped away to take a call.

My heart raced.

I looked toward the door.

His voice echoed from the hallway.

I had maybe thirty seconds.

I quickly opened a new email window.

I typed Rosa's address—Doña Consuelo had told me her sister's email the day we'd eaten the banana, whispering it so quietly I'd almost missed it.

I wrote a short message.

"Your sister Consuelo needs you. She is not well. Camila is keeping her isolated. Please come. Tell no one. Mariana, the housekeeper."

I sent it.

Then I closed the window and erased the history.

My hands were shaking when Santiago walked back in.

"Is everything clean in here, Mariana?" he asked, sitting down.

"Yes, señor," I said, picking up my cleaning supplies. "All done."

He nodded, already looking at his screen.

I left the room, my heart pounding so hard I thought he might hear it.

I'd done it.

I'd reached out.

Now I just had to wait.

And hope.

That afternoon, while Camila was at the spa, I took my chance.

I brought Doña Consuelo her lunch—another pitiful plate—and set it down.

Then I pulled out my phone.

"Doña Consuelo," I whispered. "I need you to tell me everything. About Camila. About what she's done. I'm going to record it. This will be our evidence."

She looked at the phone, then at me.

Fear warred with hope in her eyes.

"She'll be so angry," she whispered.

"I know," I said. "But this is the only way your son will believe you. Please."

She took a deep breath.

And then she began to speak.

She told me about the first few months after Camila married Santiago. How Camila had been sweet at first, attentive. How things changed after the wedding.

"She started saying I was too loud," Doña Consuelo said, her voice trembling. "That my cooking smelled. That I was embarrassing Santiago in front of his friends."

Tears rolled down her face.

"Then she said I was forgetting things. That I was confused. She told Santiago I shouldn't be left alone. That I needed someone to take care of me."

She wiped her eyes.

"She takes my money, Mariana. Every month, Santiago gives me an allowance. Camila says she'll keep it safe for me. But I never see any of it. And the letters from Rosa… I know she writes. Camila throws them away. She tells me Rosa doesn't care anymore."

Her voice broke.

"I haven't spoken to my sister in almost a year."

I stopped the recording.

My cheeks were wet.

"Thank you," I said. "This will help. I promise."

Just then, we heard the front door open.

Camila was home.

I quickly hid my phone in my pocket and stepped away from the bed.

Camila entered the room a moment later.

She looked at Doña Consuelo's red, puffy eyes.

Then she looked at me.

"Why is she crying?" she asked, her voice cold.