Alicia showed no signs of leaving her chair. “I’m on mandatory sick leave. Leandro’s orders.”

The novice, who apparently had felt his manliness tarnished, plonked his ninety-plus kilos of muscle and bile close to Alicia and offered her a smile that was clearly well practiced in prison cells and midnight raids. “Don’t fuck with me—I’m not in the mood today, sunshine. Don’t make me have to drag you out of that chair.”

Alicia turned her eyes on him. “It’s not about whether you’re in the mood, it’s about whether you’ve got the balls.”

Leandro’s thug glared at her for a few seconds, but when his partner grabbed his arm and pulled him away, he decided to break into a more gentle smile and put his hands up as a sign of truce. To be continued, thought Alicia.

The leader of the twosome checked his watch and shook his head. “Come on, Señorita Gris, it’s not our fault. You know how these things work.”

I know, Alicia thought. I know only too well. She pressed both hands against the sides of the armchair and stood up. The two henchmen watched her stagger over to a chair. On it lay what looked like a harness made up of fine lengths of string and a set of leather straps.

“May I help you?” asked the novice, his voice malicious.

Alicia ignored them both. She picked up the contraption and went into the bathroom with it, leaving the door ajar. The older man looked away, but the novice couldn’t help finding an angle from which to dwell on Alicia’s reflection in the mirror. He saw her remove her skirt and, grabbing the harness, place it over her hips and her right leg as if she were putting on some exotic sort of corset. When she adjusted the fasteners, the harness hugged her figure like a second skin, giving her the appearance of a mechanical doll. It was then that Alicia looked up and the thug met her eyes in the mirror: cold eyes, devoid of all expression. He smiled with delight and, after a long pause, turned back into the room, not without catching a fleeting glimpse of that black stain on Alicia’s side, a tangle of scars that seemed to sink into her flesh as if a red-hot drill had rebuilt her hip. The officer noticed his superior looking at him severely.

“You cretin,” he heard him mutter.

Moments later Alicia emerged from the bathroom.

“Don’t you have another dress?” asked the older policeman.

“What’s wrong with this one?”

“I don’t know. Something a little more discreet, maybe?”

“Why? Who else is at this meeting?”

His only response was to hand her a walking stick that was leaning against the wall and point to the door.

“I haven’t put my makeup on.”

“You look fine. But if you like, you can do that in the car. We’re already late.”

Alicia refused the stick and walked out to the corridor without waiting for them, limping slightly.