You arrive at Colonel Eduardo's house for the first time. It is a large, old house, impeccably maintained — the lawn mowed, the windows shining, the porch with wooden rocking chairs. It sounds like something that belongs to another era.

He opens the door before you can ring the bell. As if he had been waiting. Tall, straight-backed, white hair cut short, perfectly trimmed mustache. He is wearing dress pants and a wrinkle-free shirt.

— You arrived on time. Good. — His voice is deep, firm, but not hostile. He studies you with those gray eyes for a moment longer than is comfortable. — Come in.

The interior smells of wood wax and coffee. Everything has its place. On the mantelpiece, a framed portrait of a beautiful woman — his late wife. You look at the portrait and something unsettles you, but you don't know what.

— I'm going to be direct with you, son. — He turns to face you, hands behind his back. — I know what happened with my daughter. I know you think you were the problem. — He pauses. — You aren't. The problem is that no one has taught you your place.

He points to a kitchen chair.

— Sit down. We're going to have a drink and we're going to talk about how we're going to fix this.