Chapter 8 - Isabella's Trust
The greenhouse smelled like wet soil and old cedar.
Lauren had loved that room.
She grew herbs badly and roses beautifully.
After she died, I locked the door because every shelf felt like an accusation.
Beatriz apparently had no problem going inside.
Isabella led me to the potting bench.
"Under there."
A loose floor tile lifted easily.
Beneath it was a metal cash box.
Inside were copies of invoices.
Flash drives.
Prepaid phones.
And photographs of Isabella doing chores around the property.
Dragging bags.
Scrubbing stone.
Carrying laundry.
But every picture was carefully framed.
No Beatriz.
No context.
Just a tired child.
I understood immediately.
Evidence of neglect.
My neglect.
The fact that Beatriz had ordered the work would disappear.
There was also a handwritten calendar.
Dates.
My business trips.
School appointments.
Court filing windows.
One date was circled in red.
Our anniversary.
Beside it:
FILE 8:30 A.M.
Then Isabella pointed to a small notebook.
"She writes the money in that one."
I opened it.
Initials.
Dollar amounts.
OP.
BV.
GH.
Six hundred twelve thousand matched the trust audit almost exactly.
I looked at my daughter.
"How do you know what this is?"
"I saw her count."
"Did she know you saw?"
Isabella nodded.
"That's when she made the rule about the greenhouse."
"What rule?"
"Never come in or she'll tell you I steal."
I sat on the floor because my legs stopped working.
Beatriz had built every threat around me.
Daddy will believe you're lazy.
Daddy will think you steal.
Daddy will get tired of difficult people.
Daddy will lose you if you talk.
She did not convince Isabella that Beatriz was powerful.
She convinced Isabella that I was unsafe to trust.
That was worse.
I photographed everything and left it where it was.
The flash drives went to the cyber team by duplicate image that night.
One contained home audio.
Another held scanned financial records.
The third was encrypted.
At 2:10 a.m., the cyber team called.
"We got in."
"What's on it?"
"Messages."
"Between Beatriz and Owen?"
"Mostly."
"Mostly?"
The technician hesitated.
"There's a third person."
My pulse jumped.
"Who?"
"We don't have a name yet."
"What do you have?"
"Initials. R.M."
I stared at the ceiling.
R.M.
My father, Richard Mercer, had been dead nine years.
My mother was Evelyn Mercer.
My sister was Maya.
No obvious match.
"What does R.M. say?"
The technician read one message aloud.
Make sure Grant keeps traveling. The more absent he looks, the easier the petition becomes.
Another.
If Isabella talks, use the Lauren angle.
My chest tightened.
"Lauren angle?"
"That's all it says."
I thought about my late wife.
Her greenhouse.
Her trust.
The way Beatriz used her memory against Isabella.
Then the technician said, "Grant, there are payments to R.M. too."
"From where?"
"Not Isabella's trust."
"Then where?"
"Your company."
The room went cold.
May you like
This was no longer only happening inside my house.
