The doctor had barely closed the door when he leaned toward me. I felt his breath quicken, almost trembling, as he murmured,
” Call the police. Now.”

For a second I thought I’d misunderstood. Around me, Sant Pau Hospital continued with its usual rhythm: brisk footsteps, voices in Catalan, patients seated with emergency wristbands. However, that whisper—so dry, so decisive—froze my breath.

“Excuse me?” I managed to say.
The doctor shook his head nervously.
“Not here. Go outside, into the hallway. Make sure no one hears you.”

I watched him walk away to attend to another nurse. I didn’t have time to process anything else: my wife was inside the lab getting a simple urine test. We’d come in that morning because she’d been experiencing dizziness and lower back pain for days. Nothing suggested a serious emergency. Why on earth was a doctor asking me to call the police?

I tried to enter the laboratory, but a technician blocked my way:
“Patients only,” she said, without looking up.

I went back to the corridor. The hospital’s white lights seemed colder than usual, as if they were suddenly illuminating an unfamiliar scene. I took out my phone, but I didn’t call. What would I say? That an anonymous doctor had whispered to me to call the police without giving any explanation? Who would believe me?

When the doctor returned, he gently tugged on my sleeve and led me to a corner by a vending machine.
“Listen carefully,” he said quietly. “I can’t explain everything, but your wife is in danger . And so are you, if you don’t listen.”

I felt my throat close up.
“What’s wrong? Is it something in the tests?”
“The tests will confirm what we already suspect,” he replied. “But this isn’t just a medical issue. It’s… it’s a police matter. A criminal one.”

I wanted to ask him more, but he raised his hand.
“If I ask too many questions, I’ll raise suspicions,” he murmured. “Wait until he leaves the lab and don’t let on that you know anything . Then, call the police and leave the hospital through the side door, the one that opens onto the modernist garden.”

“Do you suspect who?” I asked.
The doctor swallowed, without looking directly at me.
“Someone who’s with her,” he said, his voice breaking. “Someone who might be watching her.”

My heart skipped a beat.
“Me?”
The doctor looked at me for the first time, his eyes hard.
“I wish I knew. But I can’t take the risk.”

At that moment, the lab door opened and my wife appeared, looking tired and with a bandage on her forearm. When she saw me, she smiled… but her eyes seemed tense, as if she were hiding something.

The doctor walked away quickly.
“Act normal,” he whispered without turning around.

And then I knew: that doctor’s visit was going to change our lives .

When my wife came out of the lab, I tried to control the trembling in my hands. I forced myself to smile, but I could feel the doctor’s gaze on the back of my neck. She straightened her jacket and kissed me on the cheek.

“They took less time than I thought,” he said.
“Yes…” I replied, trying to sound natural.

We walked down the corridor, and every step seemed to echo in my head. The doctor’s advice rang like a thud: “Your wife is in danger”… “Don’t let on that you know anything”… “Someone could be watching her . “
I needed time. I needed to think.

“I’ll pay at reception,” I said.
“There’s no need, it’s all covered by travel insurance,” she replied.

Every normal word she said seemed suspicious to me. What did I have to protect her from? From whom? From someone else? Or… from herself? The doubt pounded in my head like a hammer.

When we reached the waiting room, my wife got distracted looking at a poster about kidney disease. I took the opportunity to send a quick message to the Spanish emergency number:

“A doctor asked me to call. He says my wife is in danger. We’re in Sant Pau. What do I do?”

Not even twenty seconds had passed when I received a call. I stepped back a few paces to answer it.

“Were you the one who sent the message?” a firm voice asked.
“Yes. I don’t know what’s going on. A doctor told me…”
“Sir, listen to me. If a healthcare professional has requested police intervention, we must act. But we need to know if you can leave the building with the person at risk without causing alarm.”

I swallowed.
“I think so.
” “Good. Head to the side exit the doctor told you about. Two officers will be there in five minutes. Don’t hang up. Keep the line open.”

I turned back to my wife.
“Shall we go outside for some fresh air? It’s a bit stuffy in here,” I said, trying to make my voice sound casual.

She looked at me with some surprise, but agreed.
“Of course, I need a break too.”

We walked through a corridor that led to the hospital’s modernist garden. The architecture of Sant Pau, with its domes and mosaics, seemed both beautiful and menacing. My steps quickened against my will.

“Hey…” she said suddenly. “Is something wrong? You look pale.
” “Nothing, just tired,” I replied.

But her gaze became more penetrating, almost defensive.
“Are you sure? I’ve noticed you’ve been acting… strange lately.”

We reached the side door. I looked around. I didn’t see any police officers. Had they misunderstood me? Was I falling into a trap?

Suddenly, my wife placed her hand on my arm, tighter than usual.
“Love…” she whispered. “If there’s something you need to tell me, now’s the time.”

The way she said it… it wasn’t concern. It was something else. Something that tensed every muscle in my body.
I tried to gently pull away, but she pressed her fingers in firmly.
“Why did you want to go out?” she asked, her voice now cold. “What’s going on?”

I didn’t know what to say. At that very moment, a white van pulled up in front of us. Two people jumped out quickly. They didn’t look like police officers. They weren’t in uniform. One of them shouted my full name.

My wife suddenly let go of my hand.
And then, for the first time, I saw real fear in her eyes.

The two men approached quickly. One flashed a police ID almost without stopping, while the other watched my wife with extreme attention.

“National Police,” the first one said. “Come with us. Now.”

My wife took a step back. She looked toward the hospital door, as if searching for an escape route. Instinctively, I grabbed her arm, but she pulled away roughly.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said in a harsh, unexpectedly firm voice.

The officer took it a step further.
“Ma’am, for your safety and that of your husband, we ask for your cooperation.”

The word “husband” rang out like a blow. She looked away, and for a moment I saw her breathing quicken.
The policeman turned to me.

“The doctor notified us as soon as the first preliminary results were processed,” he explained. “Your wife isn’t sick. She’s… intoxicated .”

I felt the world crumble beneath my feet.
“What does that mean?”
“A substance in the blood and urine that doesn’t correspond to common medications or drugs. A substance used to… control a person.”

My wife pressed her lips together, as if fighting off an automatic response.

“It’s a lie,” she spat. “What kind of joke is this?”

But her voice trembled. It wasn’t conviction, it was fear.

The second agent spoke for the first time:
“We followed a similar case three weeks ago. A foreign woman in Barcelona, ​​identical symptoms, almost identical tests. We discovered that she was being subjected to chemical manipulation to obtain banking information and access to international accounts.”

I stared at my wife, stunned.
“Were you drugged? When?”
She shook her head slowly. But her face broke.

“No… I don’t know,” she murmured. “Sometimes… I don’t remember some nights very well.”

The police made us get into the van. They didn’t handcuff anyone, but the tension was so thick it seemed to fill the entire space. As we drove off, the officer offered me a sealed envelope.

“The doctor found this in your bag, between the lining and the fabric,” she explained. “He thought you should see it.”

I opened it. Inside were three receipts for international transfers , all made from an account I recognized: my wife’s. Large amounts. Recent dates. Different locations in Europe.

She covered her face with both hands.

“I didn’t do that,” she sobbed. “I swear. I don’t even remember being in those places.”

The agent nodded.
“We know. It’s exactly the method of the gang we’re investigating. They recruit someone, gradually subdue them, isolate them, control them… until they cease to be a threat.”

A chill ran through me.
“A threat to whom?”
“To them,” he replied. “His wife works in international finance, doesn’t she? We’ve seen this pattern before. People with access to sensitive information.”

My wife looked at me, desperate.
“I thought I was just tired… That the trip was getting to me. But… there are gaps in my memory. Things that don’t add up.”

The second agent added:
“Everything indicates that she was being watched before the trip. Someone close to her, someone with frequent physical access. The full toxicology report will give us more information.”

Suddenly, the question that had tormented me from the very beginning returned like a direct blow to the chest.

—And do you think I…? —I asked with difficulty.

The agent held my gaze without blinking.
“We can’t rule it out yet. You’re the one who spent the most time with her. But we’re not accusing you either. What we need is to protect both of you… until we know who’s behind this.”

My wife leaned towards me, trembling.
“My love… I never doubted you. But tell me the truth… is there something you haven’t told me?”

I inhaled deeply. In that instant, with the siren silenced and the streets of Barcelona passing by like shadows, I realized that the doctor’s words had not only saved my wife’s life…

He had opened a door that could no longer be closed.

The van stopped at a gray building near Meridiana Avenue. It wasn’t a traditional police station; there were no visible signs, and no civilians were coming or going. It looked more like a nondescript administrative office, designed to go unnoticed. The officers asked us to get out.

“We need to take separate statements,” one of them said. “It’s not a formal interrogation. We just want to clear up some inconsistencies.”

The word “inconsistencies” hung in the air like a tacit accusation. I glanced at my wife. She looked more tired than scared, as if everything that had happened in the last few days had eroded her emotional resilience. Even so, she squeezed my hand before we were separated.

I was taken to a small room with a metal table and a portable recorder. The younger agent sat across from me.

“Let’s start with the basics,” he said. “When did you first notice your wife’s symptoms?”

I thought about the last few days. About the dizziness, her irritability, those nights when she said, “I don’t really remember what I did.” I had assumed it was stress, jet lag, the pace of work.

—A week ago, maybe a little more—I replied.

The agent took notes.
“Any strange outings? People she saw that you didn’t know?”

I shook my head.
“We’re pretty predictable. Work, home, gym, company dinners… Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“And during the trip?” he asked. “Was there any time when she left your side?”

I thought about it.
I remembered the afternoon I was delayed at the hotel looking for my card while she went down to the bar to get a drink. It was only ten minutes.
I also remembered our visit to Park Güell, when I went to the bathroom and she said she would stay seated and admire the scenery.

Brief lapses. Moments that never seemed important to me.

“Yes, there were brief moments,” I admitted. “But nothing that seemed suspicious.”

The agent closed his notebook.
“Sometimes they just need seconds,” he murmured.

---

Meanwhile, in another room, the second agent was talking to my wife. I couldn’t hear him, but I could see her silhouette through the frosted glass. She was pacing, like someone struggling against two inner demons: self-doubt and fear of the unknown.

After almost an hour, we met again in a small hallway. She seemed emotionally drained, but when she saw me, she desperately reached for my hand.

“They said that… that there might be someone in my work environment,” she whispered. “Someone who had access to my schedule, my hours, my movements.”

“A colleague?” I asked.

She shook her head.
“I don’t know. But a few months ago there was a project with clients from Eastern Europe. A lot of pressure, impossible deadlines… And an external consultant who came around from time to time. I didn’t think about him until now. He always asked questions that I considered professional… but now I don’t know what to think.”

Before we could talk any further, one of the agents came in.

“We have an update,” he announced. “We have received the complete analyses from the hospital laboratory.”

My wife swallowed hard.
“And…?”

—The substance found matches a compound used in recent cases of unintentional drug handling. But most importantly, we detected microscopic traces in the seam of her bag. A powder adhered to it. Probably the delivery method.

My wife opened her eyes, horrified.
“But my purse is always with me…”

The agent looked at her gravely.
“Not always. Not in airports. Not in offices. Not in restaurants. Seconds are enough.”

He asked us to follow him to a room with a large screen. There, another investigator projected images captured by security cameras at the hotel where we were staying. The video showed the lobby bar. My wife was sitting alone at a table, waiting. Then, a man in a dark jacket walked past her: fleeting, almost imperceptible… but long enough to slip something into her bag.

My wife put a hand to her mouth.
“That… that’s the consultant,” she murmured. “I hadn’t noticed.”

The agent paused the image.
“This man is linked to an organization we were already investigating. And now, thanks to you, we have proof of direct contact,” he said.

I looked at her. She was trembling. I didn’t know if it was from fear… or from feeling, perhaps for the first time, that she wasn’t losing her mind.

The researcher added:
“But there’s something else. Something that worries us.”

She turned to me.
“He also appears in photos with you. Without you noticing. In two different places in Barcelona. And in one, it looks like he’s following you.”

I felt the air become thick.

My wife looked at me with a devastated expression.

And so, in an instant, the enemy was no longer just “someone close to her.”
It was someone who was also behind me .