"She's being dramatic."

Those were the words.

Flat.

Unhurried.

Delivered while my daughter's note was still in my hand.

"She wrote that because she missed you." Beatriz uncrossed her arms and walked to the refrigerator.

She opened it and took out a bottle of sparkling water.

"Children exaggerate.

You know that."

Rosa had both hands pressed to her mouth.

She was staring at the floor.

"Rosa." I set the note on the table.

"You can go."

She left without looking at Beatriz.

I pulled out the chair across from Isabella and sat down.

I looked at my daughter.

Her bandaged hands were folded in her lap.

She was watching the table.

"Isabella," I said quietly.

"I want you to go upstairs.

Take a bath.

Put on clean clothes.

I'll come up in a little while."

She looked at me.

Then at Beatriz.

"It's all right," I said.

"I'll be right here."

She slid off the chair and walked out of the kitchen without a word.

Her footsteps went up the stairs.

A door closed softly above us.

Beatriz set her water on the counter.

"You're frightening her with all of this."

"Sit down, Beatriz."

"I'd rather stand."

"Sit down."

Something in my voice reached her.

She pulled out a chair and sat.

I looked at her for a long moment.

In four years of marriage I had watched her charm investors, disarm rivals, and redirect any conversation that moved against her.

She was exceptional at it.

I had once considered it an asset.

"I was in the garden for forty minutes before I walked out," I said.

"I heard everything you said on that phone call."

Her expression didn't break.

But her right hand moved to the water bottle and didn't pick it up.

"I don't know what you think you heard."

"I heard you say you had her working like a maid." I kept my voice level.

"I heard you say her idiot father had no idea.

I heard you say she was terrified of you.

And I heard you say you made sure she stayed that way."

Beatriz looked at me steadily.

"You misunderstood."

"Which part?"

"All of it.

It was a joke.

A bad one.

I was talking to my sister and I was venting.

You know how I talk when I'm frustrated."

"Your sister," I said.

"Yes."

I reached into my jacket pocket and placed my phone on the table between us.

"Call her now.

Put her on speaker.

Let her confirm the conversation."

Beatriz's eyes dropped to the phone.

She didn't reach for it.

"I thought so," I said.

"This is ridiculous." She pushed back from the table.

"You come home two weeks early without telling anyone, you lurk in the garden like a spy, and now you're treating me like I'm on trial in my own home."

"It's my home."

The words landed.

She stopped moving.

"My name is on the deed," I said.

"My money built it.

My daughter lives in it.

And for the past three months, while I was working to maintain everything that funds your life here, my eight-year-old was dragging garbage across the garden with blistered hands and writing me letters she was too afraid to send."

Beatriz's jaw tightened.

"You have no idea how difficult it is to manage a child on your own for three months."

"Then you should have called me."

"You were busy."

"I was never too busy for Isabella."

She looked away.

A muscle moved in her throat.

I stood up and picked up her phone from where it sat beside her water glass.

I held it out to her.

"Unlock it."

"Excuse me?"

"Unlock your phone, Beatriz."

Her eyes went cold.

"You don't have the right to go through my phone."

"You're right." I set it back on the table in front of her.

"I don't.

But my lawyer does.

And my private investigator already has copies of the household security footage from the past twelve weeks."

That was not entirely true.

Not yet.

But I had sent the message to my security firm from the garden before I walked inside, and I knew what they would find.

Beatriz went very still.

"The cameras cover the garden," I said.

"The terrace.

The kitchen.

The hallway outside Isabella's room."

She said nothing.

"I haven't watched the footage yet." I picked up Isabella's note from the table and folded it carefully.

"But I will.

And whatever is on it, I will see."

For three seconds, Beatriz didn't move.

Then she picked up her phone, stood up, and walked out of the kitchen.

I heard her heels on the marble floor.

The sound of her going upstairs.

A door closing — not softly, the way Isabella's had.

I sat alone at the kitchen table with my daughter's four words in my hand.

Rosa appeared in the doorway.

She was holding a cup of tea she hadn't been asked to make.

She set it in front of me without a word and went back to the sink.

I looked down at the note.

*Papa, please come home.*

I was home.

But I was already beginning to understand that whatever had happened here over the past three months was larger than one afternoon in the garden.

My phone buzzed on the table.

A message from my security firm.

*Footage retrieval confirmed.

First files ready within the hour.

You should know — there is more than one incident on record.*

More than one.

I set the phone face-down and picked up the tea.

Above me, I could hear Beatriz moving quickly between rooms.

She was looking for something.

Or getting rid of it.