By midnight the photograph had been picked up by fourteen outlets.
I know because Adrián's press secretary, a quiet, precise man named Carlos who had the specific composure of someone paid to absorb bad news without transferring it, sent a summary to Adrián's phone at eleven fifty-eight. Adrián forwarded it to me without comment. I read it sitting on my bed in the dark with Lucas asleep next door and the palace quiet around me and the particular feeling of something moving faster than I had planned for.
Fourteen outlets. Six countries. The photograph had a quality to it, not paparazzi, not a security camera still. Someone with access and a decent lens and enough time to compose the shot. Someone inside this building. The library, two days ago. Adrián and me leaning over the documents. Th
