Chapter 2 - THE LOCK ON HER DOOR
Beatriz stepped in front of us.
“She needs a bath.”
I kept walking.
“Move.”
“Gabriel.”
Her voice became softer.
The voice she used when she wanted to control a situation without looking controlling.
“You’ve just returned from a long trip.”
“Move.”
She did.
Isabella held my hand as we climbed the stairs.
Her fingers barely closed around mine because the blisters hurt too much.
I noticed things I had ignored before.
The villa was spotless.
Too spotless.
No toys in the hallway.
No books on the coffee table.
No little shoes near the stairs.
It looked like a luxury rental.
Not a home with an eight-year-old child.
We reached Isabella’s room.
Then I saw the lock.
A metal slide bolt had been installed on the outside of her door.
I stared at it.
“What is that?”
Isabella said nothing.
Beatriz rushed up behind us.
“That’s not what you think.”
I turned slowly.
“What do I think?”
“She sleepwalks.”
I looked at Isabella.
“Do you?”
She shook her head.
Beatriz snapped, “You did twice.”
“No, I didn’t.”
The words came out before Isabella could stop herself.
Beatriz’s face hardened.
Just for half a second.
But I saw it.
I opened the door.
My daughter’s bedroom barely looked like hers anymore.
Half her toys were gone.
The television was gone.
Her tablet was gone.
Even the framed photo of my late mother that used to sit beside Isabella’s bed had disappeared.
Instead, there was a cleaning schedule taped to the wall.
MONDAY.
Bathrooms.
Kitchen floor.
Laundry.
TUESDAY.
Terrace.
Dusting.
Garden waste.
WEDNESDAY.
Guest rooms.
Windows.
I read the list twice.
Then again.
“This is hers?”
Beatriz folded her arms.
“It teaches discipline.”
“She’s eight.”
“And spoiled.”
Isabella flinched.
I turned toward Beatriz.
“Don’t call my daughter spoiled.”
“She is your daughter when you want to feel guilty for being away.”
The room went silent.
Beatriz realized immediately that she had gone too far.
She changed her expression.
“I’m sorry.”
“No.”
I removed the paper from the wall.
“Keep talking.”
She shook her head.
“I’m stressed.”
“Why was the door locked?”
“To stop her wandering.”
“You already lied about that.”
“I didn’t lie.”
“Then why does she say she doesn’t sleepwalk?”
Beatriz looked at Isabella.
My daughter immediately lowered her eyes.
That look told me more than words could.
I walked to Isabella’s bed.
There was a plastic storage box underneath.
I pulled it out.
Inside were broken toys.
Books with pages torn out.
A cracked picture frame.
And a small notebook.
Isabella suddenly grabbed my arm.
“Dad.”
“What?”
She whispered, “Don’t read it here.”
Beatriz stepped forward.
“What notebook?”
Isabella went rigid.
That reaction was enough.
I put the notebook inside my jacket.
Beatriz’s voice sharpened.
“Gabriel, give me that.”
“No.”
“That’s private.”
“It belongs to my daughter.”
“She writes nonsense.”
“Then why do you care?”
Beatriz stopped.
I looked at Isabella.
“Pack a bag.”
Her eyes widened.
“Where are we going?”
“Somewhere safe.”
Beatriz laughed nervously.
“This is ridiculous.”
I ignored her.
Isabella opened her closet.
Almost all her nice clothes were gone.
Only school uniforms, old shirts, and two dresses remained.
“Where are her clothes?” I asked.
Beatriz didn’t answer.
“Where?”
“I donated some.”
“Without asking me?”
“She had too much.”
Isabella quietly said, “She sold them.”
Beatriz spun around.
“What did you say?”
Isabella backed toward me.
I stepped between them.
“Sold them where?”
Isabella swallowed.
“Online.”
Beatriz’s face changed.
“What else did she sell?”
My daughter’s voice trembled.
“My jewelry from Grandma.”
I turned toward Beatriz.
The diamond bracelet my mother gave Isabella before she died had been worth nearly twenty thousand euros.
“You sold my mother’s bracelet?”
Beatriz stared at me.
Then smiled.
A strange, empty smile.
“You really have no idea what’s been happening, do you?”
“No.”
She stepped closer.
“And that’s exactly why you should be very careful before you start judging me.”
My phone vibrated.
A message appeared from my head of security.
CALL ME IMMEDIATELY. SOMETHING IS WRONG WITH THE HOUSE ACCOUNTS.
I looked at Beatriz.
She was still smiling.
May you like
And suddenly I understood.
This wasn’t only about Isabella.
