Chapter 2 - The Room at the End of the HallAlejandro carried Isabella into the villa.
Beatriz followed.
“What does she mean, sleep downstairs?”
No answer.
“Beatriz.”
His wife sighed.
“She is being dramatic.”
Alejandro stopped in the middle of the marble hallway.
Isabella's arms tightened around his neck.
“What does she mean?”
“We had an argument.”
“You had an argument with an eight-year-old?”
“She broke rules.”
“What rules?”
Beatriz glanced at Isabella.
The child immediately buried her face against Alejandro's shoulder.
That reaction told him more than Beatriz's answer.
“I think you should calm down.”
Alejandro stared at her.
“I am calm.”
And he was.
That frightened Beatriz.
“What room downstairs?”
“It was one night.”
Isabella whispered against his shoulder.
“Five.”
Alejandro looked down.
“What?”
“Five nights.”
Beatriz snapped.
“Isabella.”
The child jerked violently.
Alejandro turned.
“Do not say her name like that.”
Beatriz's mouth closed.
Alejandro carried Isabella upstairs toward her bedroom.
When he opened the door, he stopped.
Something was wrong.
The room looked beautiful.
Cream walls.
Pink canopy bed.
Books.
Stuffed animals arranged perfectly.
Too perfectly.
The bed had no wrinkles.
The slippers beside it were aligned like a hotel display.
The room didn't look lived in.
“Where have you been sleeping?”
Isabella said nothing.
Alejandro lowered her to the floor.
She held his jacket around herself and looked toward Beatriz.
Alejandro followed her gaze.
“Beatriz. Leave us.”
“This is my house too.”
“Leave us.”
“You're letting a child manipulate—”
“Get out.”
The force beneath the last two words ended the argument.
Beatriz left.
Alejandro closed the door.
Then he knelt.
“Look at me.”
Isabella slowly raised her eyes.
“You're not in trouble.”
She nodded automatically.
He recognized the nod.
It wasn't agreement.
It was obedience.
“Where did you sleep?”
“The little room.”
“What little room?”
“Near the laundry.”
Alejandro felt sick.
There was a former storage room downstairs beside the service area.
It had once held cleaning supplies before the villa renovation.
“Why?”
Isabella's lips trembled.
“Because I was bad.”
“What did you do?”
“I called Grandma.”
Alejandro frowned.
“Grandma Lucía?”
Isabella nodded.
Lucía Morales was the mother of Alejandro's late first wife, Camila.
Alejandro had encouraged Isabella to maintain a relationship with her grandmother.
At least he thought he had.
“Why would calling Grandma make you bad?”
“Beatriz said Grandma fills my head with lies.”
“What lies?”
“That Mommy left me things.”
Alejandro stared.
Camila had died four years earlier after a sudden illness.
She had indeed left Isabella a trust.
Alejandro administered it with an independent trustee.
But Isabella had never needed to know financial details.
“Who told you about the trust?”
“Grandma said Mommy made sure I'd always be safe.”
That sounded like Lucía.
“What did Beatriz say?”
Isabella looked toward the door.
Alejandro lowered his voice.
“She can't hear you.”
“She always hears.”
His skin prickled.
“What does that mean?”
Isabella pointed toward the dresser.
Alejandro looked.
Nothing unusual.
Then Isabella walked over and picked up a small white device beside a lamp.
A baby monitor.
Alejandro stared at it.
“Why is this here?”
“Beatriz says it's because I have nightmares.”
“Do you?”
“Sometimes.”
“Does she listen through it?”
Isabella nodded.
“Can you turn it off?”
“She gets angry.”
Alejandro unplugged it.
Then placed it inside a drawer.
“Not anymore.”
Isabella looked at him as if he had performed something impossible.
That hurt.
He took her hand carefully.
“Show me the downstairs room.”
They went together.
Maria, the villa house manager, would normally have been working that afternoon, but Beatriz had told Alejandro weeks earlier that Maria requested an extended leave to care for her sister.
Now Alejandro wondered if that was true.
The storage-room door was locked.
“Where's the key?”
Isabella pointed toward the kitchen.
“Beatriz keeps it.”
Alejandro didn't ask permission.
He kicked the lock.
The door opened.
Inside was a narrow bed.
A thin blanket.
A plastic cup.
No window except a small ventilation opening.
On the floor lay a child's pink sweater.
Isabella's.
Alejandro couldn't speak.
He stepped inside.
On the wall, someone had taped a sheet of paper.
RULES.
NO CALLING GRANDMA WITHOUT PERMISSION.
NO LEAVING FOOD.
NO CRYING AFTER LIGHTS OUT.
NO LYING TO DAD.
NO COMPLAINING ABOUT CHORES.
Each rule had boxes beside it.
Some boxes contained red marks.
Alejandro slowly turned.
“Who made this?”
Isabella looked down.
“Beatriz.”
“What happens when you get a red mark?”
Silence.
Alejandro crouched.
“Baby, what happens?”
“No dinner.”
He closed his eyes.
“For how long?”
“Sometimes until morning.”
Alejandro heard movement behind him.
Beatriz stood in the doorway.
Her face had changed.
“You've heard enough.”
Alejandro rose.
“No.”
She folded her arms.
“You've heard an eight-year-old describe consequences without context.”
“Context?”
“She was becoming spoiled.”
Alejandro stared at her.
“You locked my daughter in a storage room.”
“I gave her somewhere quiet to calm down.”
“You withheld food.”
“She refused dinner.”
Isabella whispered:
“No, I didn't.”
Beatriz looked at her.
And Isabella immediately backed against the wall.
Alejandro moved between them.
Then he noticed something beneath the narrow bed.
A notebook.
Pink cover.
He picked it up.
Isabella's face changed.
Beatriz's did too.
But for very different reasons.
Alejandro opened the first page.
The handwriting was childish.
The date was from seven months earlier.
At the top, Isabella had written:
THINGS I HAVE TO REMEMBER SO DAD DOESN'T STOP LOVING ME.
Alejandro felt his chest tighten.
May you like
Beneath it was number one.
Don't tell him what happens when he leaves.
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