CHAPTER 5 — THE ROOM BENEATH THE HOUSE
“Beatriz!”
I spun around.
The hallway was empty.
A second ago, she had been standing beside Elena.
Now she was gone.
The front door was still open.
The broken glass glittered across the floor.
Lucas rushed toward the entrance.
“Don't!”
Elena grabbed his arm.
“It's a trap.”
He pulled free.
“They took her.”
“No.”
Elena pointed toward the floor.
“Look.”
A thin trail of blood led from the hallway toward the basement.
I felt my stomach twist.
“She's hurt.”
Elena shook her head.
“Not necessarily.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means they want us to follow.”
I looked at the basement door.
The same door Isabella had been terrified to talk about.
The same door Beatriz had forbidden me to open.
The same door hiding whatever secrets had poisoned my family for years.
I took a step toward it.
Lucas blocked me.
“Don't go down there.”
“My wife is down there.”
“She may be waiting for you.”
“I don't care.”
“You should.”
I stared at him.
“You pointed a gun at me tonight.”
“I was trying to scare you.”
“You nearly killed me.”
“I knew the first shot wasn't aimed at you.”
“That doesn't make me feel better.”
Lucas looked away.
Then he said quietly:
“There's something down there you haven't seen.”
I opened the basement door.
Cold air rushed up the stairs.
The smell hit me immediately.
Damp concrete.
Old chemicals.
And something metallic.
Blood.
Isabella grabbed my hand.
“Dad, don't go.”
I knelt.
“You stay with Elena.”
“No.”
“Sweetheart…”
“I don't want you to go alone.”
I looked into her eyes.
Then I nodded.
“Fine.”
Elena immediately protested.
“Daniel, she can't come down there.”
“She knows more about this house than any of us.”
Isabella whispered:
“I know the way.”
I looked at her.
“You've been down here?”
She nodded.
“Beatriz made me clean it.”
My fists clenched.
“Show me.”
We descended.
One step.
Two.
Three.
The deeper we went, the colder it became.
At the bottom was a narrow corridor.
The walls were covered with old photographs.
Children.
Dozens of them.
Some were newborns.
Some were toddlers.
Some looked no older than Isabella.
Each photograph had a number written beneath it.
I stopped.
Isabella stared at the wall.
“That one was my friend.”
She pointed at a photograph.
A little girl with curly hair.
“What was her name?”
“Anna.”
“What happened to her?”
Isabella looked down.
“She stopped coming.”
My throat tightened.
“How many children did you know?”
“Seven.”
“Where are they?”
“I don't know.”
Elena covered her mouth.
I looked at her.
“You knew about this?”
“Yes.”
“And you still left Isabella here?”
“I didn't leave her here.”
“Then who did?”
Elena's eyes filled with tears.
“Beatriz.”
I turned toward the corridor.
“Beatriz!”
My voice echoed.
No answer.
Then we heard something.
A faint tapping.
Three taps.
Pause.
Three taps.
Isabella immediately grabbed my sleeve.
“Dad.”
“What?”
“That means someone is alive.”
We followed the sound.
At the end of the corridor stood a steel door.
It had no handle.
Only a keypad.
Isabella stepped forward.
“I know the code.”
I looked at her.
“How?”
“Beatriz made me enter it.”
“What is it?”
She typed four numbers.
The door unlocked.
I pushed it open.
The room beyond was enormous.
And completely different from the rest of the basement.
There were computers.
Medical equipment.
Refrigerators.
Stacks of files.
A surgical table.
And dozens of sealed containers.
I felt sick.
“What is this?”
Elena whispered:
“The laboratory.”
Lucas entered behind us.
He looked around.
“This is where they made us.”
I turned.
“Made you?”
He nodded.
“They didn't just experiment on us.”
He pointed toward the machines.
“They designed us.”
I couldn't answer.
Then Isabella walked toward one of the computers.
“Dad.”
“What?”
She pointed at the screen.
There was a file open.
Her name appeared at the top.
SUBJECT 032 — ISABELLA MORALES
I froze.
Below it were photographs of her.
At birth.
At one year old.
Three years old.
Five.
Seven.
The latest photograph had been taken only three days ago.
I stared at it.
“Someone has been monitoring her.”
Elena nodded.
“Since birth.”
I scrolled through the records.
Then I found something that made my blood run cold.
PATERNAL STATUS: UNCONFIRMED.
I stared.
“What does that mean?”
Elena didn't answer.
“Tell me.”
She swallowed.
“It means they never confirmed that you were her biological father.”
I looked at Isabella.
She was staring at me.
“Dad…”
I immediately knelt.
“Nothing changes.”
“But am I your daughter?”
I held her face.
“You are my daughter.”
She started crying.
“I don't care what some document says.”
I hugged her.
Behind us, Lucas suddenly shouted.
“Daniel!”
I turned.
He was standing beside another monitor.
“This isn't about Isabella.”
“What?”
He pointed at the screen.
“There are two active subjects.”
I approached.
The screen showed two files.
SUBJECT 031
SUBJECT 032
Isabella's file was 032.
I opened 031.
The screen loaded.
Then a photograph appeared.
A newborn boy.
Beneath it was a name.
LUCAS MORALES.
Lucas stepped backward.
“No.”
I stared at him.
“You were Subject 031.”
He shook his head.
“No.”
Elena began crying.
“Lucas…”
He turned toward her.
“You knew.”
She nodded.
“I found out six years ago.”
He stared at the screen.
“Then where is Subject 030?”
Nobody answered.
I opened another folder.
There was a list.
Subject 030 was marked:
TRANSFERRED.
Date:
SIX YEARS AGO.
Destination:
UNKNOWN.
I looked at Elena.
“Who was 030?”
Her face had gone white.
“My first child.”
I frowned.
“You mean Lucas?”
“No.”
She shook her head.
“I had three children.”
Lucas stared at her.
“You told me I was your only son.”
“I was trying to protect you.”
“Who is the third?”
Elena looked at Isabella.
Then she whispered:
“Your daughter.”
Silence.
I felt the world stop.
“Isabella?”
“No.”
Elena shook her head.
“Not Isabella.”
She pointed toward the computer.
“Subject 030 was a girl.”
I looked at the screen.
The file had been partially corrupted.
But one image remained.
A little girl.
Eight years old.
Same age as Isabella.
Same dark hair.
Same eyes.
I stared at the photograph.
“Who is she?”
Elena whispered:
“Her name is Sofia.”
Lucas stepped closer.
“Where is she?”
Elena shook her head.
“We thought she died.”
“Thought?”
“She was transferred six years ago.”
“To where?”
“I don't know.”
I looked through the files.
Then I saw something.
A recent access date.
TODAY — 2:17 PM.
Someone had opened Sofia's file only hours before I came home.
I clicked it.
A live video appeared.
A little girl was sitting in a dark room.
She was crying.
Her hands were bruised.
And she was wearing a pink dress.
Isabella gasped.
“Dad…”
I stared at the screen.
The girl looked directly into the camera.
Then she whispered:
“Isabella?”
My daughter stepped closer.
The girl continued:
“Tell your father…”
She paused.
Her eyes filled with tears.
“Beatriz didn't hurt me.”
I froze.
The video continued.
“She saved me.”
Then the screen went black.
Behind us, the basement door slammed shut.
We all turned.
Someone had locked us inside.
Then every computer in the laboratory turned on at once.
One message appeared across every screen:
YOU HAVE TEN MINUTES.
May you like
And beneath it:
CHOOSE WHICH DAUGHTER YOU WANT TO SAVE.
