Chapter 3 - THE ROOM AT THE END OF THE HALL
I found Isabella’s bedroom at seven that evening.
Or what had been her bedroom.
The room I remembered had yellow curtains.
Books stacked beside the bed.
Photographs of Isabella and her mother, Elena, arranged across one shelf.
A stuffed horse she refused to sleep without.
Most of it was gone.
The shelves were empty.
The curtains had been removed.
The bed had no blankets.
I turned toward Rosa.
“Where are her things?”
The housekeeper began crying.
“Storage.”
“Why?”
“Mrs. Navarro said Isabella had to earn them back.”
My hands tightened.
“Where has she been sleeping?”
Rosa looked down.
“Sometimes here.”
“Sometimes?”
Silence.
“Rosa.”
“The laundry room.”
I stared.
“No.”
She nodded.
The laundry room was downstairs beside the service entrance.
No proper bed.
Only a narrow daybed staff sometimes used during overnight events.
I walked there.
A folded pink blanket sat on the mattress.
Isabella’s stuffed horse was under it.
Beside the bed was a notebook.
I opened it.
Dates.
Tasks.
Each written in an adult hand.
Monday.
Scrub terrace.
Clean six bathrooms.
Sort laundry.
No dessert.
Tuesday.
Kitchen floor before school.
Garden refuse after school.
No television.
Wednesday.
Repeat if attitude continues.
At the bottom of several pages was a large red X.
I looked at Rosa.
“What does the X mean?”
She swallowed.
“Missed target.”
“And then?”
“More work.”
I had to sit down.
The notebook contained nearly eleven weeks.
Beatriz had documented it.
Not as abuse.
As management.
That was arrogance.
People who believe they are right often keep the best evidence.
Isabella appeared in the doorway.
Her hair was wet from the shower.
She wore pajamas and socks.
She saw the notebook.
Her face changed.
“I’m sorry.”
I immediately closed it.
“No.”
She stood very still.
“Dad.”
“Yes?”
“Are you going to send me away?”
The question hit me harder than anything that day.
“Why would I do that?”
“Beatriz said if I made trouble, you’d send me to school in Switzerland.”
I turned toward Rosa.
She covered her mouth.
“Did Beatriz show you anything?”
Isabella nodded.
“Pictures.”
“What pictures?”
“A school.”
“She said they lock the doors at night.”
My stomach turned.
I crouched.
“Listen to me carefully.”
“You are not being sent anywhere.”
“Okay?”
Her eyes filled.
“Even if I was bad?”
“You were not bad.”
“What if I talked back?”
“You are allowed to disagree.”
“What if I broke the plate?”
“A plate?”
She froze.
I softened my voice.
“What plate?”
Isabella whispered.
“The blue one.”
Rosa began crying again.
Isabella continued.
“I dropped it.”
“Beatriz said it belonged to your grandmother.”
“I tried to pay for it.”
“With what?”
“My birthday money.”
My chest tightened.
“How much did you have?”
“Two hundred euros.”
“Where is it?”
“She took it.”
I stood.
“Rosa.”
“Yes?”
“Call the accounting office.”
She blinked.
“For two hundred euros?”
“No.”
May you like
“For everything.”
Because if Beatriz had taken money from an eight-year-old child, I suddenly wanted to know what else she considered hers.
