Chapter 22 - BEATRIZ TELLS THE WHOLE STORY
Beatriz asked to speak with me.
I refused twice.
The third request came through Carmen.
“She says she wants to tell you about Elena.”
“She can tell prosecutors.”
“She already has.”
“Then I don’t need it.”
Carmen paused.
“She says this part is personal.”
I hated that word.
Personal had become the hiding place for too many lies.
But Isabella’s therapist said something that changed my mind.
“Closure is not forgiveness.”
So I agreed.
Supervised.
Recorded.
Attorney present.
Beatriz sat across from me in a conference room.
No silk robe.
No cocktail.
No carefully controlled villa.
Just a tired woman facing the consequences of choices she had spent years hiding.
She spoke first.
“I knew Elena for nine months.”
“You told me you never met.”
“I know.”
“Why?”
“Because Arturo told me you would never look at me if you knew.”
“He was right.”
She nodded.
“I started working with the foundation because I wanted access to wealthy clients.”
“Not admirable.”
“But not criminal.”
“Then Arturo found me.”
“How?”
“He knew I had approved an invoice without proper authorization.”
“He offered money.”
“I accepted.”
“Then more.”
“How much?”
“By the time Elena discovered it?”
“About eight hundred thousand euros.”
I stared at her.
“You married me after helping steal from my wife’s charity.”
“Yes.”
No excuse.
That almost made it worse.
“Tell me about the brakes.”
“The first time was supposed to scare her.”
“You knew?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know before?”
“Yes.”
“Could you have warned her?”
“Yes.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because Arturo said he had records that would send me to prison.”
“You chose yourself.”
“Yes.”
“What about the second sabotage?”
Beatriz closed her eyes.
“I met José.”
“Why?”
“Arturo told me the first warning hadn’t worked.”
“He said José would make a harmless adjustment.”
“There is no harmless way to sabotage brakes.”
“I know that now.”
“You knew it then.”
Her eyes filled.
“Yes.”
“Did you order him?”
“I told him Arturo wanted the same warning again.”
“Did you pay him?”
“Yes.”
There it was.
No ambiguity.
“And the night Elena died?”
“Marta told me Elena was going to meet her.”
“I told Arturo.”
“Why?”
“Because he said he only wanted to stop the meeting.”
“Then?”
“He called me from the road.”
“He sounded panicked.”
“He said Elena crashed.”
“You went there.”
“Yes.”
“Why did you leave her?”
Beatriz began crying.
“I was scared.”
I felt nothing.
Not satisfaction.
Not pity.
Nothing.
“She asked you for help?”
“Yes.”
“And you left.”
“Yes.”
“Then eighteen months later, you met me.”
Beatriz looked down.
“That was Arturo’s idea.”
I already knew.
“Did you love me?”
She took a long time.
“At some point.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“At the beginning?”
“No.”
The answer still hurt.
“I approached you because Arturo wanted information.”
“About the trust?”
“Yes.”
“And later?”
“I stopped reporting everything.”
“Why?”
“Because I liked our life.”
I almost laughed.
“Our life.”
“You mean my life.”
“I know how it sounds.”
“You liked Isabella?”
Beatriz’s face changed.
“Yes.”
“Then why did you do what you did?”
Her eyes closed.
“Because she started reminding me of Elena.”
I stared.
“She asked questions.”
“She found one of Elena’s photographs.”
“She heard Arturo talking.”
“She resisted the interviews.”
“Every time she looked at me, I felt like Elena was looking at me.”
“So you punished her.”
“At first, chores.”
“Then more.”
“I kept telling myself I was teaching discipline.”
“But I knew.”
Her voice broke.
“I knew I was taking my fear out on her.”
That was the closest thing to truth I had heard from her.
“Why the storage room?”
“Arturo said isolation would make her more cooperative.”
My hands tightened.
“And you listened.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because by then we had already forged your signatures.”
“Changed school records.”
“Created the Dubai medical plan.”
“If Isabella told you everything, it was over.”
“So you frightened an eight-year-old.”
“Yes.”
She looked at me.
“I am not asking you to forgive me.”
“Good.”
“I know you won’t.”
“That isn’t what matters.”
“Then what?”
“Isabella.”
Beatriz nodded.
“I know.”
“No.”
“You know the word.”
“You don’t understand what it means yet.”
I stood.
She spoke before I reached the door.
“Gabriel.”
I stopped.
“Arturo kept something from Elena’s car.”
“The recorder?”
“No.”
“What?”
“A photograph.”
I turned.
“What photograph?”
“She had it in the blue folder.”
“Of what?”
“Arturo with someone.”
“Who?”
“I never saw it.”
“Why does it matter?”
“Because that person financed him.”
My stomach tightened.
“Arturo was not using only stolen foundation money.”
“No.”
“Someone funded the operation long before he stole from Elena.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did Elena?”
“I think so.”
“Why?”
“Because the night before she died, she told Arturo, ‘Your patron won’t protect you forever.’”
Patron.
Someone above Arturo.
After everything, another layer.
I almost dismissed it as Beatriz’s attempt to create value.
Then Mateo searched Elena’s recovered files.
One encrypted folder had never opened.
The password hint:
PATRON.
Inside was one photograph.
Arturo standing beside a man at a Monaco marina.
The man’s face turned toward the camera.
I recognized him immediately.
Alejandro Serrano.
My uncle.
My father’s older brother.
May you like
The man who had spent twenty years insisting that I had stolen the family company from him.
And the man I had not spoken to since before Isabella was born.
