CHAPTER 2: THE BLACK BOX
I didn't touch the box.
For several seconds, I simply stood there, staring at it.
The red light continued blinking.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Then it stopped.
Isabella was pressed against my side.
“Dad…”
“I know.”
“Don't open it.”
“I won't.”
She looked up at me.
“You promise?”
“I promise.”
Another vibration came from my phone.
I looked down.
The same unknown number.
YOU HAVE LESS THAN TEN MINUTES.
My pulse quickened.
I typed:
Who are you?
The message showed as delivered.
No response.
I tried calling.
The number didn't exist.
I looked back at the box.
It was small enough to fit inside one hand.
Matte black.
No label.
No visible lock.
No wires.
Just one tiny red light.
“What is that?” I whispered.
Isabella shook her head.
“I don't know.”
“Have you seen it before?”
She hesitated.
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Three days ago.”
My eyes narrowed.
“Where?”
“In Beatriz's room.”
“What was she doing with it?”
“I don't know.”
“Was she alone?”
Isabella nodded.
“She was talking to someone.”
“On the phone?”
“No.”
My stomach tightened.
“Then who was she talking to?”
Isabella looked toward the stairs.
“A man.”
I felt the temperature in the room drop.
“What man?”
“I couldn't see his face.”
“Why?”
“He was standing behind the door.”
“What did he say?”
“I don't know.”
“Try to remember.”
She squeezed her eyes shut.
“He said…”
Her voice became quieter.
“Everything is ready.”
I stared at her.
“What did Beatriz say?”
“She said…”
Isabella swallowed.
“She said, ‘He'll never suspect me.’”
My hands curled into fists.
“And then?”
“She said you were coming home next week.”
I looked at my phone.
I'd originally planned to return from Dubai next Tuesday.
Instead, I'd changed my flight at the last minute.
No warning.
No email.
No message.
I had told nobody.
Not even Beatriz.
At least, that's what I thought.
I looked at the black box again.
Someone knew I had returned.
Someone knew about Isabella.
Someone knew enough to send me warnings.
But why?
And why now?
A faint clicking sound came from the box.
Isabella jumped.
I immediately moved between her and the counter.
The red light came back on.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Then the box made a soft electronic chime.
The lid opened by itself.
Isabella screamed.
I grabbed her and pulled her behind me.
Inside the box was a phone.
An old-fashioned black smartphone.
The screen was already lit.
There was one video file.
No name.
No date.
Just four words:
WATCH THIS ALONE.
I stared at the screen.
Then at Isabella.
“Stay here.”
“No.”
“Isabella…”
“I don't want you to go.”
“I won't go anywhere.”
I picked up the phone.
The moment my finger touched the screen, the video started.
At first, there was only darkness.
Then a room appeared.
I recognized it instantly.
My bedroom.
The camera was positioned high in the corner.
Hidden.
I watched the screen.
Beatriz entered.
She looked around.
Then someone followed her.
A man.
His face was deliberately hidden by the angle.
He placed something on my desk.
A folder.
Beatriz opened it.
I leaned closer.
The video had no sound.
But I could read her lips.
“Are you sure?”
The man nodded.
She opened the folder.
My name was written across the top.
Then I saw something that made my blood freeze.
A photograph.
It was me.
Standing beside Isabella.
The photograph had been taken from across the street.
Recently.
Very recently.
The man pointed at it.
Beatriz nodded.
Then she picked up another photograph.
This one showed Isabella entering school.
Another showed her leaving.
Another showed her playing in the backyard.
Dozens of photographs.
My daughter had been watched.
For how long?
The video continued.
The man placed a second folder on the desk.
Beatriz opened it.
Her expression changed.
She looked frightened.
Actually frightened.
She shook her head.
The man leaned toward her.
Beatriz said something.
The video was still silent.
But I could read it.
“No.”
The man pointed at the folder.
Beatriz stepped backward.
Then he raised one finger.
One.
Two.
Three.
She finally nodded.
The video suddenly ended.
The screen went black.
I stood frozen.
Isabella was staring at me.
“What did you see?”
I couldn't answer.
“Dad?”
I lowered the phone.
“Someone has been watching you.”
Her face went pale.
“For how long?”
“I don't know.”
She wrapped both arms around herself.
Then she said:
“I knew it.”
I turned toward her.
“What?”
“Sometimes there was a car outside.”
“What car?”
“Black.”
“Did you see the driver?”
“No.”
“How often?”
“Almost every day.”
My stomach twisted.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“I did.”
“When?”
“You said I was imagining it.”
I froze.
I remembered.
Three months earlier, Isabella had told me there was a black car outside the house.
I'd laughed.
I'd told her she watched too many detective shows.
I had been wrong.
Terribly wrong.
A noise came from upstairs.
A door closing.
I looked at the staircase.
Isabella grabbed my shirt.
“Dad.”
“Stay here.”
“No.”
“Isabella, I need you to listen to me.”
She shook her head.
“Don't go upstairs.”
“Why?”
“Because that's where she keeps it.”
“Keeps what?”
“The other box.”
I stared at her.
“What other box?”
She pointed toward the ceiling.
“In her closet.”
I didn't move.
Then my phone vibrated again.
Another message.
SHE KNOWS YOU FOUND THE FIRST ONE.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
I looked toward the glass doors.
Beatriz was no longer in the garden.
“Where is she?”
Isabella whispered:
“She'll be upstairs.”
I took her hand.
We moved toward the staircase.
Every step felt unnaturally loud.
When we reached the hallway, I noticed something immediately.
The door to Beatriz's bedroom was open.
Only slightly.
I pushed Isabella behind me.
“Stay here.”
The room was dark.
I reached for the light.
Nothing.
The electricity had been turned off upstairs.
I pulled out my phone and activated the flashlight.
The beam swept across the room.
Bed.
Dresser.
Mirror.
Closet.
Nobody.
Then I noticed something on the floor.
A photograph.
I picked it up.
It was a picture of Isabella.
But this wasn't a recent photograph.
She was four years old.
I turned it over.
There was writing on the back.
SHE WAS NEVER SUPPOSED TO BE YOUR DAUGHTER.
My breath stopped.
“What does that mean?”
Isabella came closer.
“Dad?”
I immediately hid the photograph from her.
“Stay there.”
But she had already seen it.
Her face changed.
“What does it say?”
“Nothing.”
“You're lying.”
I looked at her.
She was crying.
“Dad…”
I couldn't find the words.
Then we heard a sound from inside the closet.
A faint metallic click.
I slowly turned.
The closet door was closed.
A shadow moved beneath it.
Someone was inside.
Isabella grabbed my arm.
“Dad…”
I raised one finger to my lips.
Silence.
The shadow stopped moving.
Then a voice came from behind the door.
Soft.
Almost amused.
“Welcome home.”
I recognized it.
My blood ran cold.
It wasn't Beatriz.
It was a man's voice.
The same man from the video.
I stepped closer.
“Who are you?”
A quiet laugh came from inside the closet.
Then the voice answered:
“I'm the reason your wife married you.”
The door handle slowly turned.
I grabbed Isabella and pulled her behind me.
The door opened.
But nobody was inside.
Only a second black box sat on the closet floor.
Its red light was already blinking.
And taped to the top was a photograph.
A photograph of me leaving the airport that morning.
Taken less than twelve hours earlier.
May you like
On the back were six words:
YOU WERE NEVER SUPPOSED TO COME HOME.
