Chapter 4: The First Lie She Told to My Face
I came down the stairs slowly.
Beatriz watched every step.
By the time I reached the kitchen, she had set her phone face-down on the counter.
Her glass of water was beside it.
She had changed her posture — shoulders back, chin level.
The version of her that walked into rooms and expected them to rearrange themselves around her.
I pulled out a stool and sat down across the island from her.
"Talk," I said.
She let out a short breath.
"I know what this looks like."
"Tell me what it is."
"It's a misunderstanding.
A serious one, and I take full responsibility for how it appeared." She pressed her palms flat on the counter.
"Isabella has been struggling since you left.
Emotionally.
Her therapist — the one I arranged privately, because I was trying to handle this without worrying you — said that structure and routine were important.
Physical tasks, responsibility, a sense of contribution."
"Her therapist."
"Dr.
Varela.
In Málaga.
I can give you her number."
"You arranged a therapist for my daughter without telling me."
"You were in Dubai.
You were under enormous pressure.
I was trying to protect you both."
I looked at her hands on the counter.
Perfectly still.
Not a tremor.
"The bruise on her arm," I said.
Something moved behind Beatriz's eyes.
Gone in less than a second.
"She fell.
Two weeks ago, on the garden steps.
I put ice on it myself."
"She fell."
"Children fall, Marcos.
She's eight.
She runs everywhere."
"And Rosa?"
Beatriz's expression tightened slightly.
"Rosa was stealing from this household.
Cash from the kitchen drawer, items from the pantry, once a piece of jewelry from my dressing table.
I have records.
I documented everything before I let her go, because I knew you'd ask."
"Show me."
She picked up her phone, unlocked it, and turned it toward me.
A folder of photographs.
Handwritten log entries.
A screenshot of a bank transfer she claimed matched missing cash amounts.
I looked at the screen without touching it.
The log entries were dated.
Neat.
Consistent.
The kind of documentation that took time to prepare.
"When did you start keeping these records?" I asked.
"When I first noticed things going missing.
About six weeks ago."
"And you let Rosa go when?"
"Five weeks ago."
I nodded slowly.
"So you kept records for a week, then dismissed her."
"That's correct."
"And in that week, you didn't call me."
"I told you.
I didn't want to worry you."
I stood up from the stool.
I walked to the far end of the kitchen, to the drawer beside the refrigerator.
I opened it.
Inside: takeaway menus, a roll of tape, two pens, and a small notebook.
I picked up the notebook and opened it.
It was a chore log.
Dated entries going back ten weeks.
Each entry listed a task and a name.
The name on every line was Isabella.
*Bins — back garden.
Isabella.*
*Terrace sweep.
Isabella.*
*Kitchen floor.
Isabella.*
*Bins — front drive.
Isabella.*
The handwriting was Beatriz's.
I set the notebook on the counter between us.
Beatriz looked at it.
Then at me.
"That's the routine I mentioned," she said.
"Structure.
Responsibility."
"She's eight years old."
"I know how old she is."
"This says she was doing the bins every three days.
Alone."
"With supervision."
"From a sun lounger."
Beatriz's jaw tightened.
"That's not fair."
"Her hands have blisters across every finger.
The bags she was dragging weigh more than thirty kilos each.
She told me she's been doing this since the second week I was gone." I tapped the notebook.
"This log starts at week one."
For the first time, Beatriz didn't have an immediate answer.
The kitchen was very quiet.
Then she straightened.
"I think you're letting your emotions override your judgment.
You came home unexpectedly, you saw something out of context, and now you're building a case against me based on a child's version of events and a chore notebook."
"And the bruise?"
"She fell."
"And the locket her mother left her?"
Beatriz went very still.
"It's gone," I said.
"It was in her room when I left.
It's not there now.
She told me it was item number nine on a list she's been keeping.
A list of things you took from her."
Beatriz said nothing.
"Where is it?"
Her eyes moved to the window.
Just briefly.
Then back to me.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
I picked up the chore notebook and walked toward the hallway.
"I'm going to make two phone calls," I said.
"The first is to my lawyer.
The second is to a number I found in Isabella's room." I stopped at the doorway.
"After that, you and I will talk again.
And the next conversation will be different from this one."
Beatriz's voice followed me into the hallway.
Quiet.
Controlled.
And for the first time, with something underneath it that wasn't confidence at all.
"Marcos.
Whatever Rosa told Isabella — whatever she left behind — you need to understand that woman had her own reasons for wanting to hurt this family."
I kept walking.
But I heard it.
May you like
*Whatever she left behind.*
She already knew about the phone.
