Chapter 3 - Isabella's ListAlejandro sat on the narrow bed.
He should not have read his daughter's diary without asking.
But Isabella was standing beside him.
And she nodded.
“It's okay.”
Beatriz stepped forward.
“It is absolutely not okay.”
Alejandro looked up.
“Leave.”
“You're going to read months of a child's fantasies and treat them as evidence?”
“Leave.”
“She writes stories.”
Isabella whispered:
“Not that one.”
Beatriz's eyes flashed.
Alejandro saw it.
“Out.”
This time Beatriz left.
But not before looking directly at Isabella.
A warning.
Alejandro waited until the door closed.
Then he opened the notebook.
The list continued.
2. Don't ask why Dad doesn't call. He is busy.
3. Don't make Beatriz angry before dinner.
4. If I cry, do it in the shower because the camera can't hear water.
5. Don't call Grandma from my phone because Beatriz checks it.
Alejandro stopped.
“What camera?”
Isabella pointed upward.
Not in the storage room.
She meant the monitor.
Alejandro continued.
6. Be good when Dad calls so he doesn't get tired of me.
7. Don't tell Dad I don't go to tennis anymore.
Alejandro frowned.
He paid for private tennis coaching twice a week.
“You stopped tennis?”
Isabella nodded.
“When?”
“Before Christmas.”
“Why?”
“Beatriz said it costs too much.”
That made no sense.
The invoices still came monthly.
He had approved them.
“What about piano?”
“No more.”
“English tutor?”
Isabella looked confused.
“You don't have one?”
She shook her head.
Alejandro's stomach tightened.
He had paid thousands of euros for tutoring, tennis, piano, equestrian lessons and a child therapist Beatriz said Isabella adored.
“How long since you saw Dr. Marta?”
“Who?”
“The therapist.”
“I don't know her.”
Alejandro felt the first edge of something larger.
This was not only cruelty.
Money was moving.
And services were not happening.
He turned another page.
Isabella had drawn a picture of a telephone.
Under it:
Beatriz said Dad doesn't answer because he likes being away.
Alejandro swallowed.
“Did she tell you that?”
Isabella nodded.
“But I called you.”
“I know.”
“You didn't answer?”
“Sometimes it didn't ring.”
His mind raced.
During travel, he often called Beatriz first because Isabella did not have unrestricted screen time.
Beatriz would say Isabella was asleep.
Studying.
At a friend's birthday.
Alejandro had accepted it.
“What about my voice messages?”
“I didn't get them.”
He had sent dozens.
Photos from airports.
Good-night messages.
Videos.
Every one delivered to the family tablet.
“Where's your tablet?”
“Beatriz has it.”
“Why?”
“I used it after bedtime.”
“Where does she keep it?”
“Her dressing room.”
Alejandro stood.
He took Isabella upstairs.
Beatriz was in the master bedroom making a phone call.
She ended it immediately.
“What are you doing?”
“Give me Isabella's tablet.”
“I don't know where it is.”
“She says you have it.”
Beatriz stared at the child.
Alejandro stepped into her sightline.
“Look at me.”
Beatriz's expression hardened.
“She lost screen privileges.”
“For seven months?”
“It hasn't been seven months.”
“Where is it?”
Silence.
Alejandro walked into the dressing room.
He opened drawers.
“Stop going through my things.”
“Then tell me.”
Eventually he found the tablet inside a locked cabinet.
The battery was dead.
He plugged it in.
Beatriz hovered nearby.
“This is ridiculous.”
The screen came alive.
Alejandro entered the family passcode.
Messages opened.
His stomach dropped.
His conversations with Isabella were there.
But dozens of his outgoing messages had been deleted from the main thread.
He checked the recently deleted folder.
There they were.
Good night, princess. I miss you.
Deleted.
Call me when you wake up.
Deleted.
A video of Alejandro standing in Central Park saying, I found a dog almost as fluffy as the one you want.
Deleted.
Another:
I changed my schedule. We can video call at 7.
Deleted.
Someone had been systematically removing his messages before Isabella saw them.
He looked at Beatriz.
“You did this?”
“No.”
“Who else has the passcode?”
“You.”
“And?”
“Staff.”
“Which staff?”
She said nothing.
Alejandro restored the messages.
Isabella stood beside him reading.
Her face slowly changed.
“You did call.”
The four words nearly broke him.
He crouched.
“Every day.”
She looked at Beatriz.
“You said he forgot.”
Beatriz stepped forward.
“I said he was busy.”
“No.”
Isabella's voice was small.
“You said he had a new family now.”
Alejandro stood.
“What?”
Beatriz went pale.
Isabella began crying.
“You said when you have a baby, Dad won't need me.”
Alejandro stared at his wife.
Beatriz was not pregnant.
At least, not that he knew.
“What baby?”
Beatriz shook her head quickly.
“She misunderstood.”
Isabella looked at him.
“She showed me the room.”
“What room?”
“The yellow one.”
Alejandro turned.
There was a guest bedroom at the end of the upstairs hall.
Beatriz had kept it locked for months, claiming she was redesigning it.
He walked there.
The door was unlocked now.
Inside was a nearly completed nursery.
Cream crib.
Yellow walls.
Designer baby furniture.
Alejandro stood in the doorway.
Beatriz appeared behind him.
“I was going to tell you.”
He slowly turned.
“You're pregnant?”
“No.”
“Then what is this?”
Her eyes filled.
“We've been trying.”
“No, we haven't.”
Silence.
Alejandro stared.
They had discussed children once.
A year earlier.
Alejandro had said he was open to it eventually but wanted Isabella settled first.
Beatriz had agreed.
“Why build a nursery?”
“I wanted to surprise you.”
“Why tell Isabella a baby would replace her?”
“I didn't.”
“She's lying?”
Beatriz hesitated.
And from behind them, Isabella whispered:
“She said this would be the real child's room.”
Alejandro felt something inside him snap.
But before he could speak, his phone rang.
It was Lucía.
Isabella's grandmother.
Alejandro answered.
May you like
Her first words were:
“Thank God. I have been trying to reach Isabella for four months.”
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