Chapter 13 - The Ticket to Buenos AiresFor the first time, the possibility of kidnapping became concrete.
The ticket had been purchased six weeks earlier.
One-way.
Rafael Mendez.
A female child listed as Isabel Morales.
Isabella's middle family name came from Camila.
Alejandro stared at the booking.
“Who created the passport?”
“Unknown.”
“You need a passport number.”
“There was one.”
“Whose?”
“A falsified Spanish passport.”
Marta showed him a scan.
Isabella's photograph.
Different surname.
Different document number.
Same face.
Alejandro's hands began shaking.
“They were going to take her.”
“Possibly.”
“Don't say possibly.”
“We need evidence of intent.”
“A fake passport isn't enough?”
“For charges? It's significant. But we're still establishing who ordered it.”
Alejandro understood legal caution.
Emotionally, he wanted none.
Gabriel finally gave them the missing piece.
Rafael had proposed a backup plan.
If legal residential placement became difficult, Isabella would be taken first to Argentina under the pretense of a family holiday.
From there, custody would become complicated.
Beatriz could claim Alejandro had authorized the trip.
Forged letters already existed.
The idea was not to permanently kidnap Isabella, Gabriel insisted.
Just “create leverage.”
Alejandro nearly attacked him during the recorded interview.
Marta stopped him.
“Leverage over what?”
“The trust.”
“If they had Isabella abroad?”
“They could pressure you.”
“With my daughter?”
“Yes.”
“And Beatriz agreed?”
Gabriel looked down.
“She never said yes.”
Hope flashed for half a second.
Then Gabriel added:
“She said it was too risky.”
Not too cruel.
Too risky.
Alejandro sat back.
He wondered how close his daughter had come to disappearing while he sat in business-class cabins believing she was safe at home.
That night, he moved Isabella temporarily to Lucía's house in Madrid with professional security.
Isabella did not understand why.
“Are we leaving our house?”
“For a little while.”
“Because of Beatriz?”
“Because I want you somewhere quiet.”
She looked worried.
“Are you sending me away?”
The words stopped him.
“No.”
“This is how she said the school would start.”
Alejandro crouched.
“You are going with Grandma.”
“You're coming?”
“For the first few days.”
“And after?”
“I may need to work with the police.”
Her face fell.
Alejandro corrected himself.
“I'll tell you before I leave. We'll choose when we talk. And if plans change, you hear it from me.”
“Not someone else?”
“Never someone else.”
That became their new rule.
Direct truth.
No messengers.
No assumptions.
In Madrid, Isabella began working with an actual child therapist named Dr. Sofia Martín.
Alejandro attended the first session.
Isabella barely spoke.
She arranged toy figures instead.
A father.
A girl.
A woman.
She placed the father far away.
The woman close to the girl.
Then she built a wall between father and child.
Dr. Martín asked:
“What is the wall?”
Isabella answered:
“Things Beatriz says.”
Alejandro looked away.
The therapist said:
“Can anything make a door?”
Isabella thought.
Then she picked up a tiny plastic phone.
“This.”
Alejandro nearly cried.
Later, Dr. Martín told him something he needed to hear.
“She may forgive you faster than she trusts you.”
“I understand.”
“No. Most parents say they understand, then become hurt when the child keeps checking.”
“Checking what?”
“Whether you mean what you say.”
Alejandro nodded.
“She will test consistency because inconsistency became dangerous.”
“What do I do?”
“Be predictable.”
That sounded simple.
It was harder than buying companies.
Alejandro started small.
If he said breakfast at eight, he arrived at eight.
If he promised a call at six, the phone rang at six.
If he was delayed, Isabella heard it from him before six.
No surprises.
No “maybe.”
No asking another adult to explain.
After two weeks, she stopped asking whether he was leaving every time he stood up.
That tiny change meant more to him than any business victory.
Then Beatriz sent Isabella a letter.
The envelope bypassed Alejandro because it came through Beatriz's attorney.
Dr. Martín advised them not to hide its existence.
Alejandro asked Isabella whether she wanted to see it.
She hesitated.
“Is it bad?”
“I haven't read it.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
That mattered.
She opened it.
The first lines were apologies.
Then excuses.
Then something else.
Beatriz wrote:
There are things your father hasn't told you about your mother.
Isabella looked at Alejandro.
He felt cold.
The letter continued:
Before Camila died, she made a decision about you that Alejandro has hidden for years.
Alejandro stared.
He had no idea what she meant.
May you like
At the bottom:
Ask your father why your mother changed her will three days before she died.
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