Two years after my husband divorced me and married my best friend, I was hiding under the bridge, freezing cold, my clothes clinging to my body and my pride shattered, when a luxurious black SUV screeched to a halt in front of me; the rear door opened and, to my horror, my wealthy father-in-law stepped out, pale, his voice trembling as he looked at me as if he saw a ghost and muttered, “Get in the car, I was told you were de.ad.”

For a few seconds the only sound was the murmur of the river. In his eyes I saw something I didn’t expect: guilt.

“I shouldn’t be here,” I murmured. “Javier… Lucía… they won’t want to hear anything about me.”

The names of my ex-husband and my former best friend hung heavy in the air.

Ernesto shook his head.

“Javier doesn’t run my life. And Lucía…” he closed his eyes briefly, as if holding something back. “Things have changed, María.”

He pulled off his leather gloves with a sharp gesture.

“Get in the car,” he repeated. “I’m not here to rescue you out of pity. I’m here because I need your help.”

I looked at him suspiciously.

“My help? I have nothing. I’m nobody.”

He leaned closer, lowering his voice.

“Exactly. Because to them, you’re dead. Because you don’t count. Because no one will suspect you.”

A cold shiver ran down my neck.

“Suspect me of what?” I asked.

Ernesto held my gaze, his eyes dark and tired.

“María,” he said with a coldness I had never heard from him before, “I need you to help me destroy my own son.”