Chapter 8 - What Beatriz Saw at the Crash
Beatriz asked to speak without Isabella in the room.
For once, I agreed.
We sat at the kitchen island where I had proposed to her ten months earlier.
The memory made me feel sick.
“Start from the moment you got into my car with Celeste.”
Beatriz wiped her face.
“She said Elena had stolen documents from the family.”
“You believed her?”
“I wanted to.”
“Why?”
“Because she was paying me.”
At least that answer was honest.
“Celeste drove?”
“Yes.”
“She hit Elena?”
“No.”
I stared.
“You just said—”
“She boxed her in. She pulled alongside. She wanted Elena to stop.”
“And Elena didn’t.”
“No.”
“What happened?”
“Celeste moved closer.”
Beatriz’s hands started shaking.
“Too close.”
“The cars touched?”
“Yes.”
“Elena lost control.”
“Yes.”
“Then what?”
Beatriz looked at me.
“Celeste stopped.”
“Good.”
“No, Gabriel.”
Her voice broke.
“She stopped to look for the box.”
I felt something inside me go silent.
“My wife was dying in a car and my mother searched for paperwork?”
“Elena was conscious.”
I gripped the edge of the counter.
“What did she say?”
“She kept saying Isabella’s name.”
I closed my eyes.
Beatriz continued.
“I called 911. Celeste grabbed my phone and hung up.”
I opened my eyes.
“What?”
“She said if police arrived before we found the box, Elena would accuse us.”
“You let her hang up?”
“I was scared.”
“You were an adult.”
“I know.”
“You left my wife there.”
Tears ran down Beatriz’s face.
“Yes.”
I stood from the kitchen island because sitting across from Beatriz had become impossible.
“You came into my home knowing how Elena died.”
“Yes.”
“You ate at my table.”
She nodded.
“You let Isabella call you when she had nightmares about her mother.”
Beatriz covered her mouth.
“Stop.”
“No. You don’t get to ask me to stop.”
She looked smaller then, but I refused to confuse weakness with innocence.
“I told myself I could keep Celeste calm,” she whispered. “I told myself if I found the box, nobody else would get hurt.”
“And when you couldn’t find it, you hurt an eight-year-old instead.”
She had no answer.
Before I could speak, Isabella screamed upstairs.
I ran.
Her room was empty.
The window was open.
One curtain moved in the wind.
On the bed lay the stuffed rabbit with its stomach cut open.
The child-welfare officer rushed in behind me.
“She was with me thirty seconds ago.”
Mason was handcuffed downstairs.
Beatriz was in the kitchen.
Celeste had left.
I looked out the window.
A black sedan was disappearing through the service gate.
My phone rang.
My mother’s name appeared.
I answered.
Celeste said calmly, “If you want Isabella back, stop digging into Elena’s death.”
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