CHAPTER 9 – THE FARMHOUSE
Police reached the farmhouse before sunrise.
Beatriz wasn't there.
But she had been.
Fresh food.
Clothes.
A laptop charger.
And a photograph of Isabella.
Inspector Ortega called me from the property.
“She left recently.”
“How recently?”
“Hours.”
My frustration exploded.
“How does she keep getting away?”
“Because someone is helping her.”
“Alejandro is in custody.”
“Which means someone else is involved.”
That answer bothered me.
Then Elena called.
“I found something.”
“What?”
“Your Dubai office.”
My stomach tightened.
“Lucía?”
“Yes.”
Beatriz's cousin.
The assistant who had blocked Mateo's calls.
Elena had audited her access.
She had forwarded my travel schedules to an encrypted email address.
She had also accessed confidential medical files.
Including the report from my collapse.
Police arrested Lucía that afternoon.
She broke quickly.
Beatriz had paid her €60,000.
Her job was simple.
Keep me in Dubai.
Delay messages from Spain.
Monitor my schedule.
And warn Beatriz if I changed travel plans.
“But I came home early.”
Elena nodded.
“You booked the return flight yourself.”
Normally Lucía handled my travel.
This time, because I wanted the surprise, I had booked it personally.
That tiny decision had destroyed their entire plan.
Had I told my office I was coming home, Beatriz would have known.
The garbage would have disappeared.
Isabella would have been cleaned.
Her nice clothes returned.
The perfect family would have been waiting at the door.
And I might never have discovered anything.
That realization haunted me.
How many times had I come home before and seen only what Beatriz wanted me to see?
That evening, Isabella sat beside me eating pasta.
She had started eating more.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Sometimes she still asked permission before opening the refrigerator.
Every time, I told her the same thing.
“This is your home.”
She would nod.
But habits created through fear don't disappear because someone says a comforting sentence.
Then my phone rang.
Inspector Ortega.
“We found her.”
I stood.
“Where?”
“Seville.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
A traffic camera captured Beatriz entering a private clinic.
“What clinic?”
Ortega hesitated.
“A cosmetic surgery center.”
I almost laughed.
She was planning to change her appearance.
Of course.
“When?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“Then arrest her.”
“We will.”
But Beatriz was smarter than we expected.
Police entered the clinic at 6:00 a.m.
Her room was empty.
A nurse had helped her escape through a service exit.
Paid, obviously.
But this time Beatriz didn't disappear completely.
A patrol officer spotted her car twenty minutes later.
A chase began.
Through narrow streets.
Onto the highway.
Toward the countryside.
I wasn't there.
But Ortega called me afterward.
His voice was tired.
“It's over.”
I couldn't speak.
“She's alive.”
“Arrested?”
“Yes.”
I sat down.
Across the room, Isabella was coloring.
She looked up.
“Daddy?”
I covered the phone.
“They found her.”
Her crayon stopped.
“Beatriz?”
“Yes.”
“Can she come here?”
“No.”
“Ever?”
I looked at my daughter.
“No.”
She stared at me for several seconds.
Then she picked up the crayon again.
“Okay.”
One word.
But her shoulders relaxed.
For the first time since I had come home, she believed the nightmare might actually end.
It didn't.
Not yet.
Because when police searched Beatriz's bag, they found a passport.
Cash.
Three phones.
And a sealed envelope.
May you like
On the front, written in Beatriz's handwriting, were four words.
FOR ISABELLA AFTER DANIEL DIES.
