CHAPTER 4: THE BABY IN THE PHOTOGRAPH
For a moment, I couldn't breathe.
The photograph was still in the man's hand.
My father's hand.
A newborn baby wrapped in a white blanket.
And written on the back was one name.
ISABELLA.
My daughter.
My eight-year-old daughter.
The same child standing behind me now, gripping the back of my shirt with both hands.
I looked at the photograph again.
“No.”
The word came out barely louder than a whisper.
The man tilted his head.
“You recognize him.”
“My father.”
“Yes.”
“And the baby?”
He didn't answer.
I stepped forward.
“Give me the photograph.”
He smiled.
“You still don't understand.”
“Give it to me.”
“You've spent your entire life believing your father died.”
“He did.”
“No.”
His voice became colder.
“He disappeared.”
Beatriz stood several feet behind me.
She was crying.
“Please,” she whispered.
The man looked at her.
“You've already failed.”
Beatriz lowered her head.
I turned toward her.
“What does he mean?”
She said nothing.
“Beatriz.”
Nothing.
I stepped closer.
“What did you do?”
She finally looked at me.
“I tried to protect you.”
“By abusing my daughter?”
“I was trying to keep him away from her.”
“Then why did you hurt her?”
“Because he was watching.”
“That doesn't answer my question.”
She wiped her tears.
“He wanted to see fear.”
I stared at her.
“What?”
“He needed proof that Isabella was under control.”
My stomach twisted.
“And you gave it to him.”
“Yes.”
She looked toward Isabella.
“I hated myself every day.”
I almost laughed.
“Your guilt doesn't erase what you did.”
“I know.”
“Then tell me everything.”
The man interrupted.
“You don't want everything.”
I turned toward him.
“I decide what I want.”
“No.”
He smiled.
“You've never been the one deciding.”
I stepped forward.
“Who are you?”
He looked at me for several seconds.
Then he answered:
“My name is Adrian Vale.”
The name meant nothing.
But Beatriz reacted immediately.
Her face turned white.
“You know him,” I said.
She shook her head.
“No.”
“Then why are you afraid?”
“Because I know what he did.”
Adrian laughed softly.
“I didn't do anything your father didn't ask me to do.”
I froze.
“My father?”
“Yes.”
“What did he ask you to do?”
Adrian looked at Isabella.
“Protect her.”
I frowned.
“From what?”
“From you.”
The words hit harder than a slap.
I stared at him.
“You're insane.”
“Perhaps.”
He reached into his coat.
I instinctively moved Isabella behind me.
Adrian pulled out a small envelope.
He tossed it onto the floor.
It landed at my feet.
“Open it.”
I didn't move.
“Why?”
“Because it contains the truth about the day Isabella was born.”
My heart pounded.
I picked it up.
The envelope was old.
Yellowed.
The paper inside looked like it had been handled hundreds of times.
I unfolded the first document.
Hospital records.
I recognized the hospital immediately.
The same hospital where Isabella had been born.
But something was wrong.
The date was correct.
The mother's name was correct.
But the father's name was blank.
Completely blank.
I looked at Beatriz.
“Why?”
She closed her eyes.
“Because I wasn't supposed to put your name there.”
I felt my chest tighten.
“You told me she was mine.”
“She was yours.”
“Then why is it blank?”
“Because the hospital didn't know.”
I looked at Adrian.
He was watching me.
“Then who does?”
He answered quietly.
“Your father.”
I looked back at the document.
There was another page.
A handwritten note.
My father's handwriting.
I knew it immediately.
The child must remain with him.
Below it:
He cannot know the truth. Not yet.
I stared at the words.
“What truth?”
Adrian stepped closer.
“Your daughter was born into a war you never knew existed.”
“What war?”
“Not a war with guns.”
He looked at the photographs scattered across the floor.
“A war over information.”
I shook my head.
“This is ridiculous.”
“Is it?”
He pointed toward the photographs.
“Who photographed your daughter?”
I didn't answer.
“Who knew your flight?”
Silence.
“Who knew your father's secrets?”
I stared at him.
“You.”
He smiled.
“Yes.”
“And Beatriz.”
“Yes.”
“And whoever else is involved.”
His smile faded.
“Many people.”
I looked at Isabella.
She was crying silently.
I crouched beside her.
“Sweetheart.”
She looked at me.
“Are you my dad?”
The question broke me.
I held her face gently.
“Yes.”
“Even if that picture is real?”
“Yes.”
“Even if my real father is someone else?”
I froze.
Adrian watched us.
Beatriz looked away.
I answered anyway.
“Yes.”
Isabella burst into tears.
I pulled her into my arms.
“No photograph, no secret, no man in this house changes that.”
She clung to me.
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
Adrian watched us for several seconds.
Then he said:
“That's exactly what your father wanted.”
I looked up.
“What?”
“He wanted you to love her.”
“Why?”
“Because if you loved her, you'd protect her.”
“From whom?”
Adrian's expression hardened.
“From the people who created her.”
My blood ran cold.
I stood.
“What does that mean?”
He looked at Beatriz.
“She knows.”
Beatriz shook her head.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I don't know everything.”
“But you know enough.”
I turned toward my wife.
“What did you know?”
She hesitated.
Then she whispered:
“Isabella was never supposed to survive.”
The room went silent.
I stared at her.
“What?”
“She wasn't supposed to survive the first week.”
My hands shook.
“Why?”
“Because someone wanted her gone.”
“Who?”
Beatriz looked at Adrian.
He answered for her.
“The organization your father worked for.”
“What organization?”
Adrian said nothing.
“Tell me.”
He slowly reached into his coat again.
This time he pulled out a small metal identification card.
He placed it on the table.
There was a symbol engraved on it.
A black circle.
Inside the circle was a white triangle.
I had seen it before.
On my father's old watch.
On a box hidden in his study.
On a photograph I'd found years ago and assumed was meaningless.
I stared at the symbol.
“What is it?”
Adrian whispered:
“Black Meridian.”
The name sounded familiar.
Too familiar.
I remembered something from childhood.
My father used to disappear for days.
Whenever I asked where he'd been, he'd say:
“Business.”
But one night, when I was eleven, I had overheard him arguing with someone.
He had said:
“If Meridian wants the list, they'll have to kill me first.”
I had forgotten that sentence.
Until now.
I looked at Adrian.
“What is Black Meridian?”
He didn't answer.
Instead, he looked at his watch.
“We have three minutes.”
“Three minutes until what?”
“Until they realize I'm here.”
My stomach tightened.
“Who?”
He looked toward the windows.
Then toward the ceiling.
“They're already outside.”
I immediately looked at the curtains.
Nothing.
Then I heard it.
A car engine.
Another.
Then another.
Three vehicles stopping outside the estate.
Beatriz covered her mouth.
“No…”
Adrian moved toward the hallway.
“We have to go.”
I grabbed Isabella.
“Where?”
“Your father's study.”
“Why?”
“Because he left something there for you.”
“What?”
“The key.”
“What key?”
Adrian looked at me.
“The key to finding him.”
My heart stopped.
“You're saying my father is alive?”
Adrian didn't answer.
Instead, somewhere outside, a car door slammed.
Then another.
Then another.
Footsteps approached the front entrance.
Isabella whispered:
“Dad…”
I looked down.
“What?”
“I know that sound.”
“What sound?”
Her face had gone completely white.
“The man who used to come to Beatriz's room.”
I stared at her.
“Which man?”
She pointed toward the front door.
“The one who told her to hurt me.”
The door handle began to move.
Adrian's expression changed.
He suddenly looked afraid.
“It's him.”
“Who?”
Adrian grabbed my shoulder.
“The man who ordered your father's death.”
The front door exploded inward.
Wood and glass flew across the hallway.
Isabella screamed.
A group of armed men rushed inside.
I pulled my daughter behind me.
Adrian reached inside his coat.
Beatriz dropped to the floor.
And then a familiar voice came from the darkness outside.
A voice I had not heard since childhood.
A voice I had believed was buried forever.
“Son…”
I froze.
The voice continued.
“Don't let them take the girl.”
My heart stopped.
May you like
Because I knew that voice.
It was my father's.
