Chapter 6 - WHAT ELENA KNEW
For four years, I had lived with the belief that Elena left no unfinished words for me.
That belief ended with a photograph.
FOR GABRIEL IF I DIE.
I stared at the handwriting.
I knew every curve.
Every slant.
Elena wrote the letter G with an exaggerated loop.
She always had.
I could see it clearly.
This was not a copy.
Not an imitation.
The envelope in the photograph was real.
And someone who had Rosa’s phone now had it.
I called back.
No answer.
Again.
Nothing.
Mateo was already moving.
“Send me the image.”
I forwarded it.
He gave instructions to his team.
Trace the number.
Contact police.
Check Rosa’s known addresses.
I stood in my office feeling useless.
That was unfamiliar.
In business, money solved logistics.
Influence opened doors.
Lawyers created leverage.
But none of that could tell me where Rosa was at that exact second.
Then my phone rang again.
Sofia.
I answered.
“Is Isabella okay?”
“She’s fine.”
A pause.
“Gabriel, what happened?”
I told her about the envelope.
Silence.
Then Sofia whispered, “You said it was for Isabella.”
“That’s what Rafael told me.”
“What?”
“When Elena died, Rafael said she left a sealed letter for Isabella.”
“He said she wanted it kept until her eighteenth birthday.”
“Why would he lie?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you ever see the front?”
I thought back.
The days after Elena’s death existed in fragments.
Hospital corridors.
Funeral flowers.
Isabella asking when her mother was coming home.
Rafael handling papers.
Doctors.
Police.
Insurance.
I remembered the cream envelope.
But I could not remember reading the writing.
Maybe Rafael had simply told me what it was.
And I believed him.
“Gabriel.”
Sofia’s voice brought me back.
“I never knew Elena left a letter.”
“You didn’t?”
“No.”
I had assumed Rafael told her too.
Another assumption.
Another mistake.
“How much did Elena trust Rafael?”
“Too much.”
The answer came instantly.
“Why do you say that?”
Sofia hesitated.
“Because she told me once that something about him made her uncomfortable.”
I closed my eyes.
“When?”
“Maybe six months before she died.”
“What exactly did she say?”
“That Rafael was becoming too involved in personal matters.”
“What matters?”
“She didn’t explain.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I thought it was marital stress.”
“Elena had been upset with you about traveling.”
“She said you were letting too many people manage your life.”
I remembered those arguments.
At the time, I thought Elena wanted me home more.
Maybe that was only part of it.
“Did she mention Arturo?”
“No.”
“Beatriz?”
“No.”
“Anyone else?”
“No.”
Then Sofia added, “She did mention the trust.”
My stomach tightened.
“What about it?”
“She asked whether I would protect Isabella if anything happened to both of you.”
“Both?”
“Yes.”
“That’s normal estate planning.”
“Maybe.”
“But she was scared.”
I sat down.
“Scared of what?”
“She wouldn’t say.”
Before I could ask more, another call came through.
Mateo.
“I have something.”
I told Sofia I would call back.
Mateo sent an address.
An apartment building in Fuengirola.
“Rosa?”
“Her sister’s phone connected to a tower near there.”
“Police?”
“On the way.”
“I’m coming.”
“Gabriel.”
“I’m coming.”
Thirty minutes later, I stood outside a modest apartment building four streets from the sea.
Police were already inside.
Mateo met me near the entrance.
“Phone was found.”
“Rosa?”
“No.”
My chest tightened.
“Where?”
“Apartment stairwell.”
“What about the envelope?”
“Not there.”
We went upstairs.
The apartment belonged to Rosa’s sister, Maribel.
The door had been forced.
Nothing looked dramatically destroyed.
A chair overturned.
A drawer open.
A broken picture frame.
The kind of disorder created by someone searching quickly.
Maribel sat in the kitchen with an officer.
She looked terrified.
“Mr. Serrano.”
I sat across from her.
“Where is Rosa?”
“I don’t know.”
“When did you last see her?”
“This morning.”
“What happened?”
“She left.”
“Why?”
“She said she needed to give you something.”
“The letter?”
Maribel nodded.
“She had it in her handbag.”
“Did anyone follow her?”
“I don’t know.”
“What did she say before leaving?”
“That she had waited too long.”
Maribel began crying.
“She said if anything happened, I should tell you she was sorry.”
I felt sick.
“Sorry for what?”
“She didn’t say.”
Mateo approached.
He held a clear evidence bag.
Inside was a small silver key.
“Found under the sofa.”
Maribel looked at it.
“That’s Rosa’s.”
“What does it open?”
“I don’t know.”
“Think.”
She wiped her face.
“She has a locker.”
“Where?”
“At the bus station.”
Two hours later, police opened the locker.
Inside was a canvas bag.
No envelope.
But there were photographs.
Dozens.
Printed copies.
Rosa had documented everything.
Isabella carrying laundry.
Isabella cleaning terrace furniture.
Isabella eating alone in the kitchen.
The storage-room mattress.
The chore schedule.
A red mark around the outside door handle where someone had attached an additional latch.
Then paperwork.
Copies of the guardianship petition.
Medical forms.
School records.
And one page that made my hands shake.
A psychiatric evaluation request.
FOR MINOR: ISABELLA SERRANO.
REQUESTED BY: BEATRIZ SERRANO.
PURPOSE: ASSESSMENT OF PARENTAL TRAUMA.
The form alleged that Isabella displayed anxiety related to my “unpredictable behavior.”
It claimed she feared being alone with me.
None of it was true.
And yet someone was carefully constructing a paper trail.
Mateo pulled out another file.
“Look.”
A draft affidavit.
It was written for Beatriz to sign.
The language described me as volatile.
Alcohol-dependent.
Frequently absent.
Emotionally abusive.
At the bottom was a list of proposed witnesses.
Arturo Valdés.
A private therapist I had never met.
Two household employees.
And Rafael Montes.
I stared at my lawyer’s name.
He wasn’t simply aware.
He was part of it.
Then I found another document.
A trust summary.
Elena had created the Isabella Serrano Family Trust before her death.
I knew that.
What I had not known was the value.
My attorney had always described it as a protected inheritance containing several properties and investment holdings.
The summary listed current estimated value.
€186,400,000.
I stared.
That was far larger than anything Rafael ever disclosed.
“How?”
Mateo asked.
“I don’t know.”
The document showed shares in companies I assumed belonged to my main group.
Land in Málaga.
Madrid apartments.
Investment accounts.
Elena’s family assets.
More than one hundred eighty-six million euros.
Then I saw a clause highlighted in yellow.
If I died or became legally incapable of acting as Isabella’s guardian, control of the trust would pass temporarily to the court-appointed guardian.
Not ownership.
Control.
But control over nearly two hundred million euros could create enormous power.
I turned the page.
A proposed amendment had been prepared.
It named Beatriz Serrano as temporary guardian.
Drafted by Rafael Montes.
Three months before I left for Dubai.
My stomach turned.
“This began before the trip.”
Mateo nodded.
“Probably long before.”
Another page.
A medical power of attorney.
My name.
My signature.
Forged.
It authorized Rafael to coordinate certain medical decisions if I became incapacitated.
“What are they planning?”
Mateo did not answer.
Then his phone rang.
He listened.
His face changed.
“What?”
He looked at me.
“Rosa was found.”
Relief hit first.
Then fear.
“Alive?”
“Yes.”
I exhaled.
“Where?”
“Hospital.”
“What happened?”
“She was discovered disoriented near the Málaga train station.”
“Was she attacked?”
“They don’t know yet.”
“I’m going.”
At the hospital, Rosa looked smaller than I remembered.
She was sitting upright.
No dramatic injuries.
A bruise on her temple.
Trembling hands.
When she saw me, she began crying.
“I’m sorry.”
I sat beside her.
“You have nothing to apologize for.”
“I lost the letter.”
“We’ll find it.”
“No.”
Her eyes filled with panic.
“You don’t understand.”
“What?”
“He read it.”
“Who?”
She swallowed.
“Arturo.”
My chest tightened.
“What did it say?”
“I only saw part.”
“You opened it?”
“He did.”
“What did you see?”
Rosa looked toward the door.
Then back at me.
“Your wife knew Elena.”
“Beatriz?”
She nodded.
“Elena wrote her name.”
I felt the room tilt.
“What exactly did Elena write?”
“I don’t remember all of it.”
“Try.”
Rosa closed her eyes.
Then slowly repeated what she had seen.
“If something happens to me, Gabriel must know that Beatriz Castaño is not who Rafael says she is.”
Beatriz’s maiden name.
I couldn’t breathe.
Rosa continued.
“There was more.”
“What?”
“Something about a meeting.”
“A payment.”
“And the brakes.”
The word hit me like a physical blow.
“What brakes?”
Rosa started crying again.
“Elena’s car.”
I stood.
The hospital room disappeared for a second.
I could hear my heartbeat.
“Elena wrote about her brakes?”
“Yes.”
“What exactly?”
“I don’t know.”
“Rosa.”
“I only saw a line.”
“What line?”
She covered her mouth.
Then whispered, “She wrote that someone had already tampered with them once.”
I stepped backward.
Elena’s crash.
The rain.
The curve.
The barrier.
The investigation.
No mechanical defect.
That was what Rafael told me.
But had I ever read the full report myself?
No.
I had been grieving.
Rafael handled it.
Rafael handled everything.
My phone vibrated.
An email.
From Rafael.
No subject.
One attachment.
A scanned police report from Elena’s crash.
I opened it.
The first page looked familiar.
Then I scrolled.
Page six contained a section I had never seen.
MECHANICAL INSPECTION.
The final line was highlighted.
REAR BRAKE LINE SHOWS EVIDENCE OF RECENT MANUAL INTERFERENCE.
Below it was a handwritten note.
CLOSED PER FAMILY COUNSEL REQUEST.
FAMILY COUNSEL.
Rafael Montes.
May you like
Then a message appeared beneath the attachment.
WE NEED TO TALK BEFORE YOU DESTROY EVERYONE.
