Chapter 3 - Elena Knew Her Name
The police were twenty minutes away.
Twenty minutes suddenly felt like too much time.
I took Isabella into my office and locked the door.
Beatriz stayed downstairs with Mason and two security guards.
“Did your mom ever show you a red box?” I asked.
Isabella shook her head.
“Did she tell you where she hid anything?”
My daughter stared at her muddy shoes.
Then she whispered, “The lemon tree.”
“What about it?”
“Mommy said secrets grow better under things that are alive.”
That sounded exactly like Elena.
She had been an attorney. Brilliant, suspicious, and annoyingly fond of sentences that sounded like riddles until three days later.
We went back outside with Mason.
Beatriz shouted from the patio, “Gabriel, don’t.”
I ignored her.
Under the oldest lemon tree, Isabella pointed to a patch of soil beside the trunk.
“I helped Mommy dig there.”
Mason brought a shovel.
Six inches down, metal scraped metal.
My heart stopped.
There was no red box.
Only a small waterproof pouch.
Inside was a silver key and a folded note wrapped in plastic.
My name was written on the front.
GABRIEL.
I unfolded it.
The first line made my skin go cold.
If Beatriz Salazar is inside our home, then I failed to keep her away from Isabella.
I read it again.
Beatriz Salazar.
Elena had written Beatriz’s full name before she died.
I heard footsteps behind me.
Beatriz had pushed past one of the guards.
“Give me that.”
Mason blocked her.
She stopped.
I kept reading.
Do not give the key to your mother.
Do not let Celeste take Isabella anywhere alone.
And whatever Beatriz tells you, remember this: she came to me first.
I looked up.
My mother’s name was Celeste Mercer.
Chairwoman of the Mercer Foundation.
I remembered the week after Elena died. Celeste had taken charge of everything before I could think. Funeral flowers. Lawyers. Reporters. Isabella’s school. She told me grief made people vulnerable and that family was the only safe place left.
Now Elena’s note was telling me the opposite.
Beatriz stared at the key in my hand.
“Elena never trusted Celeste with legal documents,” she said.
“But she trusted you?”
“For a while.”
“What changed?”
“She discovered who was paying me.”
The answer landed between us like broken glass.
Beatriz had not simply known my wife. She had entered Elena’s life already belonging to someone else.
The woman who had stood beside me at Elena’s funeral.
The woman who called Isabella every Sunday.
I turned to Beatriz.
“What does my mother have to do with this?”
Beatriz’s face had gone pale.
“She hired me.”
“To do what?”
She looked at Isabella.
I stepped between them.
“To do what?”
“Find the key.”
“To what?”
Beatriz shook her head.
“I never knew.”
“Why did Elena know you?”
“Because I worked for her before I ever met you.”
The front gates suddenly opened.
Mason looked at his phone.
“That’s impossible. I locked them.”
Three black SUVs entered the driveway.
A county vehicle followed.
Then another.
Beatriz whispered, “She knows.”
I stared at her.
“Who?”
She looked toward the arriving cars.
“Your mother.”
Celeste stepped out carrying a folder.
Beside her stood a child-welfare officer and two sheriff’s deputies.
My mother looked at me and said, “Gabriel, step away from Isabella. I have an emergency custody order.”
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