Chapter 11 - THE WOMAN WHO WAS SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD
Marta Vega had been one of the last people to see Elena alive.
I remembered her as quiet.
Efficient.
Thirty-something.
Always carrying two phones.
Elena trusted her with schedules, travel arrangements, charity meetings, and personal errands.
After the funeral, Rafael told me Marta had resigned.
Later, I heard she moved abroad.
Eventually, someone mentioned she had died after an illness.
I never questioned it.
Why would I?
Grief creates blind spots.
You focus on surviving the central loss.
Everything around it becomes fog.
Mateo found Marta registered at a small hotel under another surname.
Police were notified.
By the time they arrived, she was gone.
But a camera captured her leaving.
Alive.
Older.
Nervous.
Carrying a black backpack.
“She knows we’re looking.”
Mateo said.
“How?”
“Someone warned her.”
That problem kept repeating.
Every move we made seemed to reach the other side before we did.
“We need to stop using company systems.”
I said.
Mateo nodded.
“Already done.”
“Phones?”
“New devices.”
“Vehicles?”
“Rotating.”
“Who knows where Isabella is?”
“You.”
“Me.”
“Sofia.”
“Daniel.”
“Two officers.”
“Carmen.”
I hated hearing the list.
Every additional person felt like a vulnerability.
That evening, Isabella asked whether she could call a school friend.
A normal question.
It nearly broke me.
I had spent days thinking in terms of conspiracies, evidence, threats, and courts.
Isabella still needed ordinary things.
Friends.
Homework.
Dinner.
Sleep.
We arranged the call from Sofia’s phone.
Isabella laughed for twelve minutes.
Afterward, she looked happier.
Then she asked, “Can I go back to school?”
“Soon.”
“When?”
“When we know it’s safe.”
Her smile faded.
I hated myself for that.
“Did I do something wrong?”
“No.”
“Then why can’t I go?”
Because adults around you valued money more than your childhood.
Because people I trusted had turned your life into a legal strategy.
Because I was too absent to notice.
I said none of those things.
“Because some adults made bad decisions.”
“I’m fixing them.”
She looked at me.
“Are you going away again?”
“No.”
“Not Dubai?”
“No.”
“Not London?”
“No.”
“What about work?”
“Work can come to me.”
She studied my face.
“You said that before.”
That hurt.
Because she was right.
I crouched beside her.
“Then don’t believe the words yet.”
She frowned.
“What?”
“Watch what I do.”
For the first time, I understood that trust with Isabella could not be repaired through promises.
Only repetition.
Presence.
Days.
Weeks.
Months.
Maybe years.
My phone rang.
Mateo.
“We found Marta.”
“Where?”
“She contacted us.”
I stood.
“What does she want?”
“To speak to you.”
“Where?”
“She chose a church.”
“Police?”
“She says she walks if police are visible.”
“I’m coming.”
Marta waited in the back pew of an old church outside Málaga.
She looked frightened.
Not calculating.
Not confident.
Frightened.
I sat three seats away.
Mateo stayed near the entrance.
Marta did not look at me.
“I’m sorry about Elena.”
I almost stood and left.
“Don’t.”
She swallowed.
“I mean it.”
“Then tell me why you disappeared.”
“Arturo.”
“What did he do?”
“He paid me.”
“For what?”
“At first?”
Her voice shook.
“Information.”
“What information?”
“Elena’s meetings.”
“Schedules.”
“Who she spoke to.”
“Where she kept documents.”
“How much?”
“Thirty thousand.”
“You betrayed my wife for thirty thousand euros?”
She closed her eyes.
“Yes.”
“At least Rafael sold her for ten times that.”
The bitterness in my voice made her flinch.
“What about the car?”
“I never touched it.”
“Did you know?”
“Yes.”
My pulse rose.
“When?”
“After the first time.”
“The loosened brake line?”
“Yes.”
“Who did it?”
“A mechanic Arturo used.”
“Name?”
“José Llorente.”
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did Beatriz know?”
Marta hesitated.
“Yes.”
“How?”
“She was at the meeting.”
“What meeting?”
“Arturo was angry because Elena kept investigating.”
“He said she needed a warning.”
“A warning?”
“Not a crash.”
“Not death.”
“Just fear.”
I stared at her.
“You’re asking me to distinguish between tampering with a woman’s brakes and intending to hurt her?”
“I’m telling you what they said.”
“Who is they?”
“Arturo.”
“Beatriz.”
“Rafael?”
“No.”
“Álvaro?”
“No.”
“Just Arturo and Beatriz?”
Marta nodded.
My chest tightened.
“What happened the night Elena died?”
Marta began shaking.
“She was supposed to meet someone.”
“Who?”
“Me.”
I stared at her.
“I had decided to tell her everything.”
“Why?”
“Because Arturo started talking about Isabella.”
My stomach turned.
“What did he say?”
“That Elena cared more about protecting the child than herself.”
“That children made people predictable.”
Marta wiped her eyes.
“I realized he wouldn’t stop.”
“I called Elena.”
“She agreed to meet near Málaga.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Arturo found out.”
“How?”
“I don’t know.”
“He called me.”
“Said if I went, my brother would lose everything.”
“So you abandoned her.”
Marta nodded.
“I told Elena not to come.”
“But she had already left.”
“What happened next?”
“I don’t know.”
“That is not enough.”
“I swear.”
“Who followed her?”
“Arturo.”
The word came out barely audible.
“You saw him?”
“I saw him leave.”
“In what?”
“Black Mercedes.”
“Did Beatriz go with him?”
“No.”
“Where was she?”
“With me.”
I froze.
“Beatriz was with you during the crash?”
“For part of the night.”
“What part?”
“Until about twenty minutes before Elena crashed.”
“Where did she go?”
“I don’t know.”
“She received a call and left.”
“From whom?”
“Arturo.”
My heart pounded.
“What did he say?”
“I only heard her side.”
“What did she say?”
Marta stared toward the altar.
“She said, ‘You promised you were only going to scare her.’”
Silence.
I felt something inside me settle.
Not calm.
Certainty.
Beatriz knew about the first sabotage.
Maybe she did not intend Elena to die.
But she knew.
And she stayed silent for four years.
“What happened after the crash?”
I asked.
“Arturo called me.”
“What did he say?”
“That Elena had made her choice.”
“Then?”
“He told me to disappear.”
“He gave me money.”
“Documents.”
“A new name.”
“And the fake report of your death?”
“His idea.”
“Why come back now?”
“Because he contacted me again.”
“When?”
“Three weeks ago.”
“What did he want?”
Marta finally looked at me.
“He wanted me to do something to you.”
My skin went cold.
“What?”
“Go to Dubai.”
“Meet Dr. Nasser.”
“Help make your medical history believable.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I heard what they were doing to Isabella.”
That stopped me.
“How?”
“Beatriz complained.”
“She said the girl wasn’t cooperating.”
“She said Isabella kept refusing to say you frightened her.”
Marta’s voice broke.
“That was when I understood nothing had changed.”
She reached into her bag.
Mateo moved slightly.
Marta froze.
“Slowly.”
I said.
She removed a small recorder.
“Elena gave me this the day before she died.”
“What is it?”
“She recorded everything.”
“Everything what?”
“Her final meeting with Arturo.”
My heart stopped.
“The one from the foundation?”
“No.”
“A later meeting.”
“When?”
“The night before the crash.”
“Why didn’t you give this to police?”
“Because I was afraid.”
“Four years?”
“Yes.”
I took the recorder.
“Why give it to me now?”
“Because Arturo knows I have it.”
“And if he finds me first, I won’t get another chance.”
Mateo connected headphones.
We played the recording through a secured device.
Elena’s voice.
Arturo’s.
Then Beatriz’s.
Elena said:
“I know what you did to the brakes.”
Beatriz answered:
“It wasn’t supposed to happen that way.”
My blood turned cold.
Arturo interrupted.
“You’re confusing knowledge with proof.”
Elena said:
“I have proof.”
Then she mentioned a name.
Tomás Reyes.
Mateo stopped the audio.
I looked at him.
“Who is Tomás Reyes?”
Marta answered.
“The private investigator Elena hired.”
“Where is he?”
Marta looked at me.
“Arturo believes he’s dead.”
My stomach tightened.
“Is he?”
“No.”
“Then where is he?”
Marta gave us an address.
Portugal.
A coastal town near Faro.
Before we could ask another question, her phone lit up.
One message.
UNKNOWN NUMBER.
YOU SHOULD HAVE STAYED DEAD.
Marta stared at it.
May you like
Then looked at me.
“Arturo knows I’m here.”
