“Did you leave her alone in the house?”
“We knew she could take care of herself.”
“Did you tell her she wasn’t allowed to use the washing machine?”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Did Bianca hit her?”
“Gabriel, listen to yourself. You’re accusing my family of abusing a child because your daughter told you a few stories.”
“My daughter has bruises.”
“Teenagers get bruises!”
I closed my eyes.
There it was.
Not concern.
Not disbelief mixed with fear.
Annoyance that her private arrangements had been discovered.
“Patricia, do not contact Sofia to question her about what she told me. Do not threaten her, and do not attempt to take her anywhere. Any communication about her safety needs to go through the appropriate people.”
Then Patricia laughed.
It was a short, disbelieving laugh.
“Oh, Gabriel. You cannot possibly be taking this seriously.”
“What part should I not take seriously? The bruises? The threats? The fact that you left a sixteen-year-old alone for days while she washed everyone’s clothes by hand?”
Her voice sharpened.
“She has always been dramatic. She’s been jealous of Bianca since the beginning.”
“Did you leave her alone in the house?”
“We knew she could take care of herself.”
“Did you tell her she wasn’t allowed to use the washing machine?”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Did Bianca hit her?”
“Gabriel, listen to yourself. You’re accusing my family of abusing a child because your daughter told you a few stories.”
“My daughter has bruises.”
“Teenagers get bruises!”
I closed my eyes.
There it was.
Not concern.
Not disbelief mixed with fear.
Annoyance that her private arrangements had been discovered.
“Patricia, do not contact Sofia to question her about what she told me. Do not threaten her, and do not attempt to take her anywhere. Any communication about her safety needs to go through the appropriate people.”
I needed to understand whether there was anything else Sofia had been too frightened to tell me.
I arranged for the proper people to be informed of my plans and made sure Sofia would remain with Rafael and his wife.
Then, early the following morning, I drove back to the house.
The front door opened with the same familiar click it had made for twelve years.
For a moment, I stood in the entrance and listened.
The house was silent.
I walked into the kitchen first.
The plastic bucket Sofia had used was still beside the laundry sink. Someone had emptied it, but the sweatshirt she had been washing remained draped over the edge.
I picked it up.
It was one of her school sweatshirts.
There was a small embroidered S near the pocket, the same letter I had ordered when she started secondary school.
I remembered buying it for her. She had complained that the school uniform was ugly, then worn that sweatshirt almost every weekend.
I folded it carefully and placed it in a bag.
Then I walked upstairs.
The guest bedroom where Teresa usually slept was empty. Bianca’s room was filled with shopping bags and discarded clothing. The bathroom counter was crowded with expensive cosmetics.
Everything looked ordinary.
Too ordinary.
I went to Sofia’s room.
Her bed was neatly made. The curtains were closed, and her schoolbooks had been stacked against the wall.
But her favorite photographs were missing.
The small frame containing a picture of her and Elena at the beach was gone.
I opened the wardrobe.
Most of Sofia’s clothes had been pushed to one side, leaving space for Bianca’s dresses.
On the bottom shelf, I found a shoebox.
Inside were folded notes, birthday cards, and a small notebook.
I recognized Elena’s handwriting on several of the cards.
Sofia had kept every one.
I sat on the edge of the bed and opened the notebook.
It wasn’t a diary in the ordinary sense.
The pages contained dates, short descriptions, and lists of household tasks.
Some entries were written in Sofia’s careful handwriting.
Others were little more than a few hurried words.
Monday: Clean kitchen before school. No breakfast.
Wednesday: Bianca took my shoes. Patricia said I was selfish.
Friday: Teresa told me Dad would choose his new family if I caused trouble.
I stopped reading.
My own family had been used against my daughter as a weapon.
I turned another page.
There was an entry dated two weeks earlier.
Patricia said I must never go into her bedroom when she isn’t home. She said I would be sorry if I touched anything in there.
I stared at the words.
Until that moment, I had assumed Patricia’s bedroom was simply a private space where she kept her personal belongings.
Now I wondered why a teenager would have been threatened over entering it.
I placed the notebook in the evidence bag with the other items and continued my inspection.
The door to Patricia’s bedroom was closed.
I stood outside it for several seconds.
Then I opened it.
The room looked exactly as she had left it.
Her suitcase was gone, but her dressing table remained covered with perfume bottles, jewelry boxes, and makeup. A framed photograph of us from our wedding stood beside the mirror.