Chapter 3: What Dolores Kept Hidden
Beatriz pulled out a chair and sat down across from me like she was joining a board meeting.
She folded her hands on the table.
Crossed her ankles.
Her silk robe had not even wrinkled.
"I know how this looks," she said.
"Do you."
"A child doing a small chore.
A father who comes home without warning and misreads the situation." She tilted her head slightly.
"It's understandable."
Isabella was still beside me.
I felt her fingers tighten around mine.
"Isabella." I kept my voice even.
"Go with Dolores.
Let her finish bandaging your hands."
Isabella looked up at me.
Then at Beatriz.
"It's all right," I said.
"I'll come find you in a few minutes."
She stood slowly.
Dolores was already at the doorway.
When Isabella reached her, Dolores put a hand gently on her shoulder and guided her out without a word.
Beatriz watched them go.
Then she looked back at me.
"You frightened her," she said.
"Coming home like that, no warning, making a scene in the garden.
She's a sensitive child."
"She was on her knees in garbage."
"She dropped the bag.
I was going to help her."
"From the sun lounger."
Beatriz's jaw tightened.
Just slightly.
"I was on a call."
"I heard the call."
A pause.
The first real one.
"You heard me talking to a friend," she said.
"People say things when they're venting.
You know that.
You've been away for three months.
You don't know what it's been like managing this house, managing her, managing everything while you were in Dubai living in a five-star hotel."
"Managing her."
"She's a difficult child.
You don't see it because you're never here."
I looked at her for a long moment.
The woman I had married four years ago.
The woman who had stood in a white dress in a courtyard in Seville and promised to love what I loved.
"Dolores," I said, without raising my voice.
Beatriz blinked.
"What?"
Dolores appeared in the doorway.
She had been close.
Waiting.
In her hands was a small notebook.
Dark blue cover.
Worn at the corners.
She set it on the table between us and stepped back.
Beatriz stared at it.
Something moved across her face too fast to name.
"What is that?" she said.
I didn't answer.
I opened the cover.
Dolores had kept a record.
Dates.
Times.
What she had witnessed.
Written in her careful, small handwriting, one entry per day, going back eleven weeks.
*Tuesday.
Isabella given no lunch.
Told she had not finished her tasks.*
*Thursday.
Isabella made to scrub the kitchen floor twice.
First time declared not good enough.
No explanation given.*
*Saturday.
Isabella found crying in the laundry room at nine in the evening.
Would not say why.
Bruise on her left forearm.
Small.
Fading.*
Beatriz's composure cracked so fast I almost missed it.
Her eyes went to Dolores.
"You had no right—"
"She had every right," I said.
"That is a private household.
She works for me.
She had no business—"
"She works for me." I closed the notebook.
"This house, this staff, this property — all of it is mine.
You have never paid a single bill inside these walls."
Beatriz stood up.
Her chair scraped back hard.
"You are going to take the word of a housekeeper over your own wife?"
"I'm going to take the word of a woman who watched what happened in this house every day for three months and wrote it down because she was afraid no one would believe her otherwise."
"This is insane." Beatriz pressed both hands flat on the table and leaned forward.
"I have been here.
I have been managing everything.
And you walk in after three months and immediately decide I'm the villain?
Based on what?
A notebook?
A child's overreaction?"
"Based on what I heard from the terrace.
And what I saw in the garden.
And what your own voice said into that phone."
She went very still.
"I was behind the hedge," I said.
"I heard everything."
The silence that followed was the longest of my life.
Then Beatriz straightened.
She smoothed the front of her robe with both hands.
When she looked at me again, something had shifted behind her eyes.
The softness was completely gone.
"You should speak to your lawyer before you do anything you regret," she said.
"I already called him from the car."
Her chin lifted.
"Then you'll know that I have rights in this marriage.
Rights to this property.
Rights that—"
"My lawyer is aware of the prenuptial agreement."
Her mouth closed.
"Every asset.
Every property.
Every account." I picked up the notebook.
"And now he's also aware of this."
Beatriz looked at the notebook.
Then at me.
Then at the door Dolores had disappeared through.
When she spoke again, her voice was quieter.
But it was not soft.
May you like
It was something else entirely.
"You have no idea," she said, "what I know about you."
