Chapter 7: The Locket and the Reckoning
The officer who executed the order arrived at two in the afternoon with a court-appointed witness and a locksmith.
Beatriz's lawyer — a man named Fuentes whom I recognized from a property dispute three years earlier — stood beside her in the master bedroom doorway and said nothing as the safe was opened.
Inside: two stacks of cash in mixed currencies.
Three passports.
A manila envelope sealed with tape.
And at the very back, half hidden beneath the envelope, a small gold locket on a fine chain.
I recognized it before anyone else in the room moved.
It had belonged to Isabella's mother.
I had given it to Isabella the Christmas after the funeral.
She had worn it every day for a year.
Then, somewhere in the months I was traveling, it had stopped appearing around her neck and I had not thought to ask why.
Pilar photographed everything in place before anything was touched.
The officer logged each item.
When the locket was placed into an evidence bag, Fuentes leaned toward Beatriz and said something I couldn't hear.
Beatriz said nothing back.
She was looking at the locket.
Then she looked at me.
"I was keeping it safe," she said.
"She kept losing things.
I put it away so it wouldn't get damaged."
"In a locked safe."
"Yes."
"Without telling her.
Without telling me."
"I was going to return it."
Pilar looked up from her notes.
"When?"
Beatriz didn't answer.
The manila envelope was opened by the officer in the presence of everyone.
Inside were documents — property records, account statements, a signed power of attorney.
The power of attorney bore my name at the top and a signature at the bottom.
I had never signed it.
I looked at Andrés.
He was already reading it, his face very still.
"This is a forgery," he said.
He said it quietly, the way you say something when you are certain and don't need volume to prove it.
Fuentes straightened beside Beatriz.
"My client has no knowledge of—"
"It carries a notary stamp," Andrés said.
"We'll verify the notary.
If the stamp is real, someone committed fraud on behalf of your client.
If the stamp is forged, your client committed it herself." He looked at Fuentes.
"Either way, this document does not represent my client's signature or his intent."
The room was very quiet.
Beatriz uncrossed her arms.
"I want to speak to my lawyer alone."
"You'll have that opportunity," the officer said.
"After we finish here."
I walked out of the master bedroom and went upstairs.
Isabella was sitting on the floor of my bedroom with my phone in her lap, a drawing spread out in front of her.
She had drawn the garden — the hedges, the terrace, the dumpsters in the corner.
And in the middle of the garden, two figures.
One tall.
One small.
Holding hands.
She looked up when I came in.
I sat down on the floor beside her.
I reached into my jacket pocket and took out the evidence bag.
I held it up so she could see what was inside.
Her mouth opened.
"My locket."
"It's being held as evidence for now," I said.
"But when this is over, it comes back to you.
I promise."
Her eyes filled.
She didn't look away from the bag.
"I thought she'd sold it," Isabella whispered.
"No."
"I looked everywhere.
I thought it was gone."
"It's not gone." I put the bag back in my pocket.
"Nothing that belongs to you is gone."
She leaned against my arm.
I put my arm around her.
Below us, I heard the sound of Beatriz's voice rising in the master bedroom.
Then Fuentes's voice, lower, cutting across hers.
Then silence.
Isabella didn't ask what was happening downstairs.
May you like
She just leaned a little closer and went back to her drawing.
I stayed on the floor beside her and didn't move.
