CHAPTER 8 – SMOKE
I grabbed Isabella.
The hallway outside already smelled like smoke.
Security rushed toward us.
“Service stairs!”
We moved.
Fast.
The fire wasn't large.
But it had been deliberately started in a storage room two floors below.
Enough to trigger panic.
Enough to force evacuation.
Enough to expose us.
When we reached the underground garage, one security officer stopped.
“Wait.”
A van sat near the exit.
Engine running.
No driver visible.
Then the side door opened.
A man stepped out.
He saw us.
Ran.
Security chased him.
Police later found rope, duct tape, and a syringe inside the van.
The plan had been obvious.
Start a fire.
Force us outside.
Take Isabella.
I sat beside her in the ambulance while firefighters cleared the building.
She didn't cry.
That frightened me.
“Sweetheart?”
She looked at me.
“You can cry.”
“I'm okay.”
“You don't have to be.”
Her lip trembled.
Then everything came out.
She threw herself against me.
“I don't want her to take me!”
“She won't.”
“I don't want to go back!”
“You won't.”
“I don't want to clean anymore!”
“You don't have to.”
“I don't want to sleep in that room!”
“You never will again.”
She sobbed until her body shook.
I held her.
And for the first time, I understood something.
Justice wasn't enough.
Arresting Beatriz wouldn't erase what she had done.
Isabella needed time.
Safety.
Therapy.
A father who was actually present.
Not one calling from airports.
Not one sending gifts from Dubai.
Me.
The next morning, I made three decisions.
First, I suspended every international project requiring long-term travel.
Second, I hired a child trauma specialist.
Third, I contacted Mateo.
“Come home.”
He hesitated.
“Is Cruz in custody?”
“Yes.”
“And Mrs. Navarro?”
“Still missing.”
“Then my grandson—”
“We'll protect him too.”
Silence.
Then Mateo whispered.
“I'll come.”
He returned two days later.
When Isabella saw him, she ran.
Actually ran.
She threw herself into his arms.
The old man cried.
So did I.
Mateo brought one final piece of evidence.
A memory card.
“I removed it before I left.”
“From where?”
“The hidden camera.”
He had installed a tiny camera inside the basement corridor after discovering Isabella's belongings.
The footage showed Beatriz and Alejandro repeatedly entering the room.
One video changed everything.
Beatriz stood beside the desk.
Alejandro was arguing.
“This has gone too far.”
Beatriz laughed.
“You wanted the money.”
“Not like this.”
“You don't get moral principles halfway through a crime.”
“What about the kid?”
“She'll adjust.”
“You're hurting her.”
Beatriz turned.
Cold.
Almost bored.
“She isn't mine.”
Alejandro stared at her.
“You've raised her four years.”
“I tolerated her four years.”
My stomach twisted.
Then came the sentence prosecutors would later replay in court.
“If Daniel disappears, the girl becomes useful.”
Alejandro shook his head.
“And if she talks?”
Beatriz smiled.
“Children can be taught not to talk.”
Isabella wasn't in the room when we watched it.
Thank God.
Ortega took the memory card.
“This is enough to bury them.”
“Then find her.”
“We are.”
“When?”
He looked at me.
“Soon.”
He was right.
That evening, a woman used Beatriz's passport at Málaga Airport.
Police surrounded the terminal.
But the woman wasn't Beatriz.
She was a stranger.
Paid €5,000 to carry the passport through security.
A distraction.
While police rushed toward the airport, another woman crossed the border into Portugal using a stolen identity.
By the time investigators realized it, she was already gone.
But Beatriz had made one mistake.
She rented a car.
And inside that car's navigation history was an address.
May you like
A farmhouse outside Seville.
Owned by Beatriz's mother.
