He didn't look at her. He began to write feverishly in the air with his finger. "You don't understand, Mara. I didn't invent Antonia. I found her. And now, the people who were looking for her have found me."

Mara reached into her white lab coat. Her fingers brushed against something cold and metallic. She pulled out a small, silver pin—a chess piece. A red queen.

In the rain-slicked heart of Madrid, Dr. Mara Beltrán found a file on her desk that shouldn't have existed. It was titled , but the name beneath it sent a chill through her: Juan Gómez-Jurado .

The lights in the hospital flickered and died. In the sudden darkness, the sound of a heavy door clicking shut echoed through the ward. Mara realized then that this wasn't a medical case. She was inside a plot that had already been written, and according to the rules of a Gómez-Jurado thriller, no one was ever truly safe until the final page.

Mara entered the room. The man looked exactly like the photos on his book jackets, but his eyes were wide, darting toward the corners of the ceiling as if tracking an invisible spider. "Mr. Gómez-Jurado?" she whispered.