Chapter 2 - THE MAN WHO WAS SUPPOSED TO BE DEADI watched the recording three times.
Each time, I noticed something new.
The way Patricia looked over her shoulder before grabbing Daniela's purse.
The way she checked the staircase before searching my daughter's phone.
And the way she stepped around Daniela's motionless body as though she were nothing more than an inconvenient piece of furniture.
I wanted to believe there was an explanation.
I wanted to believe the camera had somehow distorted what happened.
But the truth was sitting in my hand.
My wife had hurt our daughter.
Then she had left her there.
And she had lied directly to my face.
“Javier?”
I looked up.
Patricia stood in front of me, holding two paper cups.
“I brought you coffee.”
For twenty-two years, that simple gesture would have made me feel loved.
That afternoon, it made me sick.
“No, thanks.”
She set one cup beside me.
“Have you heard from the doctor?”
“Not yet.”
She sat down.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then Patricia asked a question so casually that I almost missed its significance.
“Did Daniela say anything when you found her?”
My pulse quickened.
“Why?”
“I'm just asking.”
“She said my name.”
“Nothing else?”
I looked directly at her.
“What else would she say?”
Patricia smiled.
But the smile didn't reach her eyes.
“Nothing. I was only worried.”
I turned away before my expression betrayed me.
My phone was still open to the security application.
I needed to see the remaining footage.
But I couldn't risk Patricia looking over my shoulder.
“I need to call my office,” I said.
“Now?”
“Yes.”
“Javier, your daughter is in the hospital.”
The hypocrisy nearly made me laugh.
“I'll be right outside.”
I walked down the corridor and entered an empty family waiting room.
Then I locked the door.
The next recording was marked 10:03 AM.
Forty-nine minutes after Daniela collapsed.
I pressed play.
The camera showed our front entrance.
A black luxury SUV pulled into the circular driveway.
A man stepped out.
He appeared to be in his late fifties, tall, broad-shouldered, with thinning silver hair and a noticeable limp.
He wore a charcoal suit and carried a leather briefcase.
At first, I didn't recognize him.
Then he turned toward the camera.
My stomach dropped.
“No,” I whispered.
I enlarged the image.
The man's face filled the screen.
A narrow scar ran from his left eyebrow toward his temple.
His jaw was heavier than I remembered, and time had deepened the lines around his mouth.
But there was no mistaking him.
It was Raymond Vale.
Patricia's older brother.
A man who had supposedly died in a boating accident eighteen years earlier.
I remembered that day clearly.
Daniela was only two.
Patricia received a telephone call while we were eating breakfast.
She dropped the receiver and began sobbing.
Her brother's boat had allegedly capsized off the California coast.
His body had never been recovered.
For months, Patricia grieved.
I paid for a memorial service.
I supported her mother through the arrangements.
And when Patricia told me she couldn't bear to discuss Raymond again, I respected her wishes.
Yet there he was.
Walking into my house.
Alive.
I leaned closer to the screen.
Patricia opened the front door before he knocked.
She looked furious.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded.
Raymond pushed past her.
“Your daughter called me.”
Patricia glanced toward the floor.
Daniela was still lying beside the entryway table.
Raymond stopped.
“What the hell happened?”
“She fell.”
He stared at her.
“You were supposed to keep her quiet, not kill her.”
I felt my heartbeat pounding in my ears.
Patricia grabbed his arm.
“Lower your voice.”
Raymond looked down at Daniela again.
“Is she breathing?”
“Of course she's breathing.”
“Then call somebody.”
“I can't!”
“Why?”
“Because she'll tell them everything!”
Raymond ran a hand over his face.
“Patricia, this is getting out of control.”
“You're the one who came back!”
“You called me three weeks ago.”
“Because I needed you to fix it!”
Raymond stepped closer.
“I told you this would happen eventually.”
Patricia's voice turned sharp.
“And I told you the records were supposed to be destroyed.”
Records?
What records?
Raymond glanced at Daniela.
“Where's her phone?”
“I have it.”
“Did she send anything to Javier?”
“I don't know.”
“Then find out.”
Patricia looked toward the security camera.
For the first time, Raymond followed her gaze.
He pointed at the device.
“Is that recording?”
Patricia shook her head.
“Javier disabled the cameras before his trip. He was having problems with the system.”
I almost dropped my phone.
She was half right.
Three weeks earlier, our security application had repeatedly disconnected.
Patricia complained that the cameras were invading her privacy.
She insisted we turn them off.
I agreed to disable the indoor cameras temporarily.
But two days before leaving for my trip, our technician called.
He explained that a firmware update had corrected the issue.
I quietly restored the entryway and exterior cameras through my phone.
I hadn't told Patricia because I assumed she wouldn't care.
Now that simple decision had become the most important thing I'd done in years.
On the recording, Raymond exhaled.
“Good.”
He opened his briefcase.
Inside were several folders and a thick envelope.
He handed the envelope to Patricia.
“These are the replacement documents. They need Javier's signature before Monday.”
Patricia glanced toward Daniela.
“He's coming home tonight.”
“Then get it done tonight.”
“And if he refuses?”
Raymond's expression hardened.
“Remind him how much he loves his daughter.”
My hands went cold.
I paused the video.
For several seconds, I stared at those words.
Remind him how much he loves his daughter.
Were they planning to threaten Daniela?
Was her injury part of something larger?
And why did a man believed to be dead need my signature?
I forced myself to continue watching.
Raymond knelt beside Daniela.
He checked her pulse.
Then he examined her face.
“She's going to need a hospital.”
Patricia shook her head.
“No.”
“She could have a brain injury.”
“She knows how to make herself look helpless.”
Raymond stood.
For the first time, genuine disgust crossed his face.
“She's your daughter.”
Patricia looked away.
Then she said something that made me forget how to breathe.
“She's Javier's daughter. There's a difference.”
Raymond went completely still.
“You promised never to say that again.”
Patricia folded her arms.
“Then stop lecturing me.”
They stared at one another.
Finally, Raymond closed his briefcase.
“Get his signature. Once the transfer is complete, we can leave Arizona.”
He walked out.
Patricia remained by the door.
She watched the SUV disappear.
Then she returned to Daniela.
My daughter had begun moving slightly.
Her fingers twitched against the marble.
Patricia crouched beside her.
“You should have minded your own business,” she whispered.
And walked away.
I stopped the recording.
My entire body was shaking.
There were a hundred questions in my head.
Why had Raymond faked his death?
What documents did they need me to sign?
What did Patricia mean when she said Daniela was only my daughter?
And why was my wife so desperate to keep our daughter from speaking?
A knock startled me.
“Mr. Morales?”
I opened the waiting room door.
A young nurse stood outside.
“Your daughter is awake.”
My knees nearly gave way.
“Can I see her?”
“Yes. But the doctor needs to speak with you first.”
I followed her into a consultation room.
Dr. Nathan Brooks, the emergency physician, stood beside a computer displaying Daniela's test results.
He looked serious.
“Mr. Morales, your daughter suffered a concussion. We also found evidence of prolonged dehydration, poor nutritional intake, and significant physical stress.”
“Will she recover?”
“We're optimistic. But she needs observation.”
I nodded.
“There is something else,” he continued.
I braced myself.
“Some of her injuries are older than today's fall.”
“How old?”
“Several weeks, possibly longer. There's bruising around her wrists and upper arms, along with a partially healed rib injury.”
I stared at him.
“Someone has been hurting her?”
He chose his words carefully.
“Her injuries raise that concern. We've asked a hospital social worker to speak with her.”
I lowered my head.
For two weeks, I had been attending meetings in Chicago, shaking hands, reviewing contracts, and sleeping in expensive hotels.
Meanwhile, my daughter had been suffering inside my own home.
“How did I miss it?” I whispered.
Dr. Brooks placed a hand on my shoulder.
“The most important thing is what happens next.”
I looked up.
“Can I talk to her?”
He nodded.
“She's asking for you.”
When I entered Daniela's hospital room, she was lying against white pillows.
An IV line ran into her arm.
A small bandage covered her temple.
Her eyes filled with tears when she saw me.
“Daddy.”
I crossed the room and took her hand.
“I'm here.”
She started crying.
“I'm sorry.”
That broke me.
“Sweetheart, what could you possibly be sorry for?”
“I didn't want to ruin your marriage.”
I sat beside her.
“Daniela, look at me.”
She raised her eyes.
“Nothing matters more to me than you.”
Her lower lip trembled.
“I tried to tell you.”
“When?”
“Three months ago. Remember when I asked if we could have dinner alone?”
I remembered.
I'd been preparing for a major presentation.
Patricia said Daniela only wanted money.
I postponed dinner.
We never rescheduled.
The memory cut through me.
“What were you trying to tell me?”
Daniela looked toward the door.
“Is Mom here?”
“She's outside.”
“Please don't let her come in.”
I squeezed her hand.
“She won't.”
Daniela took a shaky breath.
“Dad, Mom has been taking money from your company.”
I went still.
“How much?”
She closed her eyes.
“Almost eleven million dollars.”
I stared at her.
“That isn't possible.”
“I found the transfers. I found the fake invoices. And I found something else.”
“What?”
She opened her eyes.
“Uncle Raymond is alive.”
“I know.”
She looked shocked.
“How?”
“I saw the security footage.”
Her breathing quickened.
“Then you know what she did?”
“Some of it.”
She began crying harder.
“Dad, there's a reason she never wanted me to work at your company.”
“What reason?”
Daniela tightened her grip on my hand.
“Because I found out how she got rid of the first person who discovered the missing money.”
A terrible silence settled over the room.
“What person?” I asked.
Daniela swallowed.
“Your former business partner.”
I stared at her.
“Michael?”
She nodded.
Michael Hart had died twelve years earlier.
According to the investigation, he'd fallen asleep at the wheel on a lonely stretch of highway.
I had attended his funeral.
I had carried his casket.
And I had helped raise money for the two children he left behind.
“Daniela,” I whispered, “what are you telling me?”
May you like
She looked directly into my eyes.
“Dad, I don't think Michael's death was an accident.”
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