The sharp sound of tearing paper cut through the bustle of Terminal 1 at Mexico City International Airport.

By four o’clock that afternoon, the temperature outside had climbed, but inside my home, the air was cool and serene.

I had spent the early afternoon at the local passport agency, filing the police report regarding the intentional destruction of my passport and submitting an expedited replacement request. The officer who took the report—an earnest young man named Inspector Morales—had shaken his head in disgust when he viewed the security footage sent directly from terminal security.

"She laughed while doing it, señora," Morales had noted grimly. "This is willful property destruction. We can file formal charges if you wish."

"Hold the file open for now, Inspector," I had told him. "Let’s see how she behaves when the consequences arrive."

Now, back at my desk, the consequences were beginning to land like artillery shells.

My home phone rang. It was the private number for my trust manager at Banco Santander.

"Mrs. Trent, good afternoon," the manager, Gabriel, said respectfully. "I am calling to confirm that we have executed your written instructions. The secondary cards ending in 4091, 4092, and 8812 have been permanently canceled. The recurring payment mandates for the Roma Norte property lease and the vehicle financing for the imported SUV have been discontinued."

"Thank you, Gabriel. Have the notification emails been sent to the secondary users?"

"Yes, ma'am. Automated notices were dispatched twelve minutes ago."

"Excellent. Have a wonderful weekend."

I hung up. I didn't even have to count to sixty.

My mobile phone, which I had just unmuted, exploded with a frantic incoming FaceTime call from Vanessa.

I tapped the screen, set the phone upright against a stack of ledgers, and sat back.

Vanessa’s face filled the screen. She was sitting in what looked like a crowded terminal coffee shop, her mascara slightly smudged, her hair wild.

"Maggie! What did you do to my apartment?" she screamed, oblivious to the other travelers turning to look at her. "My landlord just texted me! He said the lease isn't being renewed next month and that the rent for this month bounced! Are you insane?"

"Good afternoon, Vanessa," I said evenly. "I’m having chamomile tea. How is the airport?"

"Don't give me that smug attitude!" she shrieked. "You can't cancel my lease! That’s my home! All my furniture is there! My cats are there!"

"The lease is in the name of the Trent Family Trust," I explained, as if reviewing an entry with an intern. "I am the sole executor and funding source of that trust. Since you have made it abundantly clear that my only value to you is that of an unpaid domestic servant who stays behind to feed your animals, I decided to simplify our business arrangement. You are thirty-two years old, Vanessa. You have an influencer agency. You have your own income. Surely an independent professional can sign her own lease."

"I don't have the credit rating for that building and you know it!" she wailed. "They require six months of liquid reserves!"

"Then I suggest you look for a smaller apartment," I replied. "Perhaps one that doesn't feature an Italian marble kitchen island."

"You're a monster!" she spat. "Arthur would despise you for this! He would be rolling in his grave if he saw how you’re treating his daughter!"

My hand remained perfectly steady as I set down my teacup.

"Your father spent his entire life cleaning up the wreckage of your financial irresponsibility, Vanessa. He protected you from the consequences of your choices because he loved you. But Arthur is gone. And I am no longer funding your illusion of wealth."

Before she could scream another word, the camera was roughly snatched away. Derek’s furious face filled the screen.

"Maggie, listen to me very carefully," Derek growled, his voice trembling with suppressed rage. "We are stuck at the terminal. We had to pay three thousand dollars out of our personal checking account just to get standby tickets on an evening flight to Guadalajara, and from there we have to catch a red-eye bus home! We don't have access to the secondary cards! Emily tried to buy food for the kids and the machine declined her!"

"Food is very expensive at international airports," I observed mildly. "Perhaps you shouldn't have spent twelve hundred dollars at Saks Fifth Avenue last Tuesday, Derek."

Derek froze. His eyes shifted frantically. "That was... that was a client entertainment expense—"

"You don't have clients, Derek. Your company was dissolved. And you used my secondary credit card to buy Italian suede loafers while my daughter was borrowing grocery money from my emergency fund."

"Mom!" Emily’s tear-stained face pushed into the frame beside Derek. "Mom, please! Derek is stressed! We’re all exhausted! The children haven't eaten since noon!"

"Then buy them a meal with your own debit card, Emily," I said firmly.

"We don't have enough in checking!" Emily cried out, finally breaking under the weight of the truth. "Derek’s accounts are overdrawn! Everything we had was tied up in the cash buffer for this trip! If you cut those cards, we don't have a safety net!"

"Then you had no business boarding an airplane to Hawaii," I said. "You were flying across the ocean on my dime, leaving me behind in the trash can, expecting me to pick up the bills when you landed."

"We're your family!" Emily shouted.

"Family treats each other with dignity," I said. "You treated me like a broken appliance."

"We're coming to your house," Derek threatened, his voice dropping into a harsh, ugly register. "As soon as we get back to the city, we’re coming over. We’re going to sit down, and you’re going to transfer those funds back, or I swear to God, Maggie—"

"If you set one foot on my property without an invitation, Derek," I said, looking straight into the lens, "the police will be waiting. And unlike your business ventures, they actually show up on time."

I ended the call.

I picked up my pen, checked off the third box on my legal pad, and dialed Julian Vance once more.