“Because they usually rehearse the location before the event,” she says. “Or they’ve already picked it.”

When you mention the text about the cabin, Phelps sits straighter. She asks whether Mauricio has access to one. You remember, suddenly, a place he mentioned twice in the last month, supposedly for a “guys’ fishing trip.” A hunting cabin near Medina Lake owned by a man from his job site, except now that memory feels too convenient, too ready. Detective Phelps makes a call while you are still talking.

They cannot arrest him yet. The evidence points, but it does not close. They can, however, advise, document, collect, and coordinate. Phelps tells you that if Mauricio invites you somewhere tomorrow night and you agree, they may be able to build an attempted murder case instead of just a suspicious fraud file. Elena hates that idea on sight. “You want her to play bait?” she snaps.

Phelps meets her stare. “I want her alive. If we move too early without enough, he walks, disappears, or tries again smarter.”

That evening you move through your apartment as if the walls have ears. Because they might. Phelps’s team places a discreet recorder in your purse and another under the seam of your jacket. Gabriel helps you back up your phone to a hidden cloud folder and sets location sharing with Elena and the detective. You memorize a sentence you can use if something goes sideways: I forgot my allergy pills in the car. Harmless words. Emergency meaning.

Mauricio comes home with takeout, soft voice, and a plan. You see it before he speaks it, because killers in bad movies are easier to spot than killers in real life only until real life finally shows its teeth. Halfway through dinner he reaches across the table and squeezes your hand.

“I’ve been thinking,” he says. “We’ve had a rough year.”

You lower your eyes just enough. “We have.”

“So let me fix it. Tomorrow night. Just us. A drive out to a little cabin my buddy lets me use sometimes. Lake view, stars, no phones. We cook, talk, start over.”

The invitation lands exactly where the text said it would. Cabin cleaner. You force your shoulders not to tighten. “Tomorrow?”

He smiles. “Yeah. I already took care of everything.”

That sentence lingers after he goes to shower. I already took care of everything. Cleaners use words like that. Men planning a reconciliation do not. You sit at the kitchen table with your pulse banging in your wrists and realize the old version of you, the one who kept translating danger into inconvenience, is gone.

The next day is long enough to feel like two separate lives stitched together badly. In the first, you are a woman putting on jeans, packing a toothbrush, nodding at her husband’s romantic effort, and even slipping on lip gloss because that is what a hopeful wife might do. In the second, hidden under the first like a blade sewn inside a hem, you are cataloging exits, charging two phones, hiding a mini canister of pepper spray in your boot, and repeating Detective Phelps’s instructions until they become muscle memory.