We walked across the street as a silent, unified front—the betrayed wife, the disgraced parents, the avenging brother. We entered the lobby, a sterile space of polished marble and generic art that smelled of artificial flowers and palpable tension. No one spoke as Luis pressed the button for the elevator. The ride up was suffocating. I could hear Carmen’s quiet, ragged breathing. I could feel Rafael’s silent, vibrating fury. The soft chime announcing our arrival on the sixth floor was as jarring as a gunshot.

The hallway, carpeted in a garish floral pattern, seemed to stretch into infinity. Every step was deliberate, a slow march toward an unavoidable verdict. We stopped before room 612. The number on the brass plaque gleamed under the recessed lighting. I looked at the closed door, behind which my husband was dismantling the life we had built. I raised my hand and knocked, the sound unnaturally loud in the hushed corridor.

Silence. I could almost hear the frantic whispers inside, the hurried rustle of clothing. I knocked again, harder this time. Firm. Resolute. We heard the scuffling of footsteps, a muffled voice, and then the click of the lock.

The door opened a few inches. Javier stood there, shirtless, his hair disheveled. His face, when he saw us, was a canvas of pure, unadulterated horror. It was not the face of a man caught in a lie; it was the face of a man watching his entire world being consumed by flames. His eyes darted from his mother’s stricken expression to his father’s thunderous glare, to my brother’s cold fury, and finally, to me. In my eyes, he found no comfort, no hint of hysteria, only a calm, placid surface that promised a brutal reckoning.