CHAPTER 1 — THE HOUSE THAT LIED
Beatriz stood frozen at the bottom of the stairs.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
The woman I had married six years ago was still wearing the same white silk robe I had seen from the garden. Her cocktail glass was sitting on the terrace table behind her.
She had forgotten to hide it.
That tiny detail told me more than any explanation could.
I looked at Isabella.
“Go upstairs, sweetheart.”
She hesitated.
Her eyes darted toward Beatriz.
That frightened me.
An eight-year-old child shouldn't need permission to walk into her own bedroom.
I crouched beside her.
“You don't have to be afraid anymore.”
Isabella's lips trembled.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
She nodded slowly and disappeared up the staircase.
The moment she was gone, Beatriz changed.
Her frightened expression vanished.
She crossed her arms.
“You're overreacting.”
I stared at her.
“My daughter has bleeding blisters on her hands.”
“She was helping around the house.”
“She was dragging garbage bags bigger than herself.”
“She insisted.”
“She said she was afraid of you.”
Beatriz rolled her eyes.
“Children exaggerate.”
I stepped closer.
“She said you threatened to double her work if she complained.”
Beatriz's face tightened.
“She is a difficult child.”
I felt something inside me turn cold.
“Don't.”
“What?”
“Don't call my daughter difficult.”
“She has been acting out for months.”
“She is eight.”
“She needs discipline.”
I glanced toward the garden.
“Discipline doesn't leave wounds.”
Beatriz said nothing.
I walked past her and headed toward the kitchen.
She followed.
“Where are you going?”
“To find out what else you've been doing.”
“You can't just accuse me because you saw one incident.”
“One incident?”
I stopped.
“Then explain the bruises.”
She went pale.
I turned around.
“What bruises?”
Beatriz didn't answer.
That was enough.
I rushed upstairs.
“Isabella?”
No answer.
I opened her bedroom door.
She was sitting on the edge of her bed, still wearing the torn pink dress.
Her hands were hidden beneath her thighs.
“Sweetheart.”
She looked up.
I sat beside her.
“Show me your hands.”
She hesitated.
Then slowly held them out.
My stomach dropped.
The blisters weren't new.
Some were fresh.
Others had already begun healing.
There were scratches along her wrists too.
“How long?”
She looked down.
“I don't know.”
“How long have you been doing chores outside?”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“Since you left.”
My chest tightened.
“You mean for two weeks?”
She nodded.
“Every day?”
Another nod.
“What did she make you do?”
Isabella whispered.
“Cleaning.”
“Anything else?”
“Laundry.”
“What else?”
“Kitchen.”
I swallowed.
“Garbage?”
She nodded.
“And sometimes the basement.”
“What did you do in the basement?”
She suddenly became silent.
I noticed it immediately.
“Isabella.”
She shook her head.
“Dad, please don't ask.”
“Why?”
“She said I wasn't allowed to talk about it.”
“Who?”
“Beatriz.”
My jaw tightened.
“What happens in the basement?”
Isabella looked toward the bedroom door.
Then she whispered something that made my blood run cold.
“She keeps things down there.”
“What things?”
“I don't know.”
“Then why are you afraid?”
“She told me if I opened the locked room, something bad would happen to you.”
I stared at her.
“What locked room?”
She pointed toward the floor.
“Behind the old wine shelves.”
I had lived in this house for six years.
I had never heard of a locked room.
Behind us, footsteps sounded in the hallway.
Beatriz.
I immediately stood.
She appeared in the doorway.
“What are you talking about?”
I looked at her.
“Nothing.”
Her eyes narrowed.
Then she looked at Isabella.
“Come downstairs.”
“No.”
Beatriz blinked.
I stepped between them.
“I said she stays here.”
“She has chores.”
“She has injuries.”
“She needs to learn responsibility.”
“She needs a doctor.”
Beatriz laughed bitterly.
“For blisters?”
I didn't answer.
Instead, I picked up my phone.
Her expression changed.
“Who are you calling?”
“The doctor.”
“You're being ridiculous.”
“Maybe.”
I walked toward the hallway.
“But I'm also staying home.”
She froze.
“What?”
“I was supposed to be gone for two more weeks.”
“I know.”
“I canceled everything.”
Her face lost its color.
“Why?”
I turned toward her.
“Because I want to see what happens in this house when you think I'm not watching.”
For the first time, Beatriz looked genuinely frightened.
That night, Isabella slept in my bedroom.
I stayed awake beside her.
At 2:13 a.m., I heard footsteps downstairs.
I quietly left the room.
The house was dark.
I followed the sound toward the kitchen.
Then I saw Beatriz.
She was standing beside the back door.
She wasn't wearing her robe anymore.
She was dressed in black.
And she was holding a small metal key.
I watched from the shadows.
She opened the back door.
Then walked outside.
I followed.
She crossed the garden toward the old wine cellar entrance.
The same direction Isabella had pointed to.
I stayed far enough behind that she wouldn't hear me.
Beatriz unlocked the cellar.
The door opened with a long, rusty groan.
She stepped inside.
Then she stopped.
Someone was already there.
A man's voice came from the darkness.
“You brought him back early.”
Beatriz froze.
“How do you know?”
“Because his car is in the driveway.”
My blood ran cold.
I couldn't see the man's face.
Beatriz lowered her voice.
“He wasn't supposed to return until the end of the month.”
“He knows?”
“Not yet.”
“Then we don't have much time.”
I stepped closer.
A floorboard cracked beneath my shoe.
Both of them turned.
Silence.
Beatriz's face went white.
The man inside the cellar whispered:
“Did you bring someone?”
I stepped out of the darkness.
“No.”
Beatriz stared at me.
“I followed you.”
Her mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
The man remained hidden.
I looked directly into the darkness.
“Come out.”
Nothing.
Then I heard a metallic click.
The cellar door slammed shut.
Beatriz ran.
I grabbed her wrist.
“Who was that?”
“Let me go!”
“Who was in there?”
“You don't understand!”
“Then explain it.”
She struggled.
“You should have stayed away!”
I tightened my grip.
“What did you do to my daughter?”
Her eyes filled with panic.
But before she could answer, a loud crash came from inside the cellar.
Then another.
Something was happening behind that locked door.
I released Beatriz and grabbed the handle.
Locked.
I turned toward her.
“Give me the key.”
She shook her head.
“Give me the key!”
“No!”
“Beatriz!”
She backed away.
“You don't know what's behind that door.”
“I know enough.”
Then something slid underneath the cellar door.
A small white envelope.
It stopped at my feet.
I bent down and picked it up.
My name was written across the front.
Not my full name.
Just one word.
DANIEL.
I looked at Beatriz.
She was trembling.
“Who wrote this?”
She didn't answer.
I tore open the envelope.
Inside was a photograph.
I looked at it.
And every bit of warmth left my body.
It was Isabella.
Standing in this same garden.
But the photograph had been taken three months before I came home early.
And beside my daughter stood a man I had never seen before.
May you like
On the back of the photograph, someone had written six words:
ASK YOUR WIFE WHO HE REALLY IS.
