Chapter 5 - The Voice on the RecordingCamila's estate attorney was named Helena Vargas.
She joined the call from Madrid less than twenty minutes later.
Alejandro, Isabella and Lucía sat in the library.
Beatriz had been told to remain elsewhere in the house.
Alejandro had also called villa security and instructed them that nobody was to leave without notifying him.
He didn't know whether he had legal authority to keep Beatriz there.
He no longer cared.
Helena's face appeared on the screen.
“Alejandro, I should have contacted you earlier.”
“Yes.”
No comfort.
No polite denial.
He wanted everyone to start telling the truth.
Helena accepted that.
“Six months ago, my office received an inquiry regarding Camila's trust.”
“From whom?”
“The caller identified himself as your financial adviser.”
“Name?”
“Gabriel Torres.”
Alejandro frowned.
“I don't have a financial adviser named Gabriel Torres.”
“That's why we refused to disclose anything.”
“What did he ask?”
Helena looked at her notes.
“Whether the Marbella residence could be sold if Isabella were enrolled in a long-term therapeutic boarding program outside Spain.”
Alejandro looked at his daughter.
Therapeutic.
Not simply school.
“What else?”
“He asked whether a step-parent could be appointed co-guardian if the biological parent traveled extensively.”
Alejandro's pulse quickened.
“And?”
“He asked whether trust funds could pay for Isabella's residential treatment.”
“How much?”
“The example he gave was three hundred thousand euros annually.”
Alejandro sat back.
The fake tennis.
Fake therapist.
Fake tutoring.
This was not random.
“How many years?”
“Until eighteen.”
Ten years.
Three million euros.
Before extras.
“Play the recording.”
Helena did.
A man's voice filled the library.
Polished.
Spanish accent.
Professional.
Alejandro did not recognize it.
But Isabella did.
She whispered:
“That's the school man.”
Alejandro turned.
“You know him?”
“He came here.”
“When?”
“Before Dad's birthday.”
That was five months earlier.
“What did he say?”
“He asked me questions.”
Beatriz appeared at the library door.
“This needs to stop.”
Alejandro stood.
“Who is he?”
“I don't know.”
Isabella looked at her.
“You called him Uncle Gabriel.”
Silence.
Beatriz closed her eyes.
Alejandro walked toward her.
“Who is Gabriel?”
“My cousin.”
“And?”
“He works in education.”
“Where?”
“Switzerland.”
Alejandro almost laughed.
“Of course.”
Beatriz folded her arms.
“You're making this sound criminal.”
“You had your cousin call my late wife's attorney pretending to represent me.”
“I told him to ask general questions.”
“He used my name.”
“I didn't tell him to do that.”
“Why was he asking how to sell Isabella's house?”
Beatriz snapped:
“Because this house is absurd!”
Isabella flinched.
Beatriz continued.
“We spend hundreds of thousands a year maintaining a villa for a child!”
Alejandro stared.
“There it is.”
“What?”
“The truth.”
“The truth is that this family lives inside a mausoleum built around Camila.”
Lucía gasped through the speaker.
Beatriz ignored her.
“Every room has her photographs. Every decision is about what Camila wanted. The trust. The villa. Isabella.”
Alejandro's expression hardened.
“Careful.”
“I have been careful for five years!”
“And today you stopped?”
Beatriz's eyes filled.
“I am your wife.”
“And she is my daughter.”
“You always choose her.”
Isabella looked frightened.
Alejandro responded slowly.
“There was never supposed to be a competition.”
Beatriz laughed bitterly.
“That is easy for you to say.”
Alejandro understood something then.
Not the scheme.
Not yet.
But the emotion beneath it.
Beatriz did not simply resent inconvenience.
She resented Isabella.
The child's existence.
The child's inheritance.
Camila's permanent place in the family.
“Did you want her sent away?”
Beatriz said nothing.
“Answer me.”
“I wanted her to become independent.”
“At eight?”
“She is needy.”
“She lost her mother.”
“Four years ago.”
Lucía shouted through the tablet:
“How dare you?”
Beatriz turned.
“And there she is. Another woman telling me how to live in my own marriage.”
Alejandro stepped between Beatriz and the screen.
“Gabriel.”
“What about him?”
“Did he arrange the fake services?”
“What fake services?”
“Tennis. Piano. Therapy.”
Beatriz's expression shifted.
Alejandro saw it.
“Isabella hasn't attended any of them.”
“That isn't true.”
“She's sitting right there.”
“Children forget.”
Isabella's face fell.
Alejandro felt rage rise.
“You are not going to use the same trick on her that you use on me.”
“What trick?”
“Make reality negotiable.”
Beatriz said nothing.
Helena interrupted.
“Alejandro, there is something else.”
He looked at the screen.
“We reviewed distributions from Isabella's trust after the strange call.”
His stomach tightened.
“How much?”
“In eighteen months, approximately 1.4 million euros.”
Alejandro stared.
“For what?”
“Education. Therapy. Security. Specialist care. Transportation.”
He looked at Isabella.
An eight-year-old who had spent the afternoon kneeling in garbage.
“Who received the money?”
Helena hesitated.
“Several companies.”
“Owned by?”
“We traced three to Gabriel Torres.”
Beatriz went pale.
Helena continued.
“And one to a company registered in Beatriz's maiden name.”
Alejandro slowly looked at his wife.
Her phone rang.
She glanced down.
Gabriel.
Alejandro held out his hand.
“Answer it.”
“No.”
“Answer it.”
Beatriz declined the call.
Seconds later, a text appeared.
Alejandro could not see the screen.
But he saw Beatriz's reaction.
Fear.
She tried to put the phone away.
He caught her wrist.
“Show me.”
“Let go.”
“Show me.”
Beatriz pulled free.
The phone slipped.
It hit the marble floor.
The screen remained lit.
Alejandro looked down.
One message.
YOU SAID HE WOULDN'T BE HOME UNTIL NEXT MONTH.
May you like
And beneath it:
GET THE GIRL'S PASSPORT BEFORE HE FINDS THE SCHOOL CONTRACT.
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