Chapter 4: Two Hundred Thousand Euros
Andrés stayed on the line while I pulled up the household account on my laptop.
The transfers were exactly as he described.
Seventeen of them.
Neat, evenly spaced, each one just below the threshold that would trigger an automatic bank alert.
Twelve thousand euros.
Eleven thousand five hundred.
Eleven thousand eight hundred.
Never the same amount twice.
Never large enough to look alarming on its own.
Someone had planned this carefully.
"When did the first transfer go out?" I asked.
"March ninth," Andrés said.
"Six days after your flight to Dubai."
Six days.
She had waited six days.
"Where is the receiving account registered?"
"That's where it gets interesting.
The account is held under a company name — Solera Gestión SL.
Registered in Málaga fourteen months ago." He paused.
"The sole director is listed as a man named Félix Arroyo."
I knew that name.
"Andrés.
Félix Arroyo is Beatriz's brother."
Silence on the line.
Then: "I'll have a full financial trace prepared by tomorrow morning.
I'd also recommend we freeze the joint account today before anything else moves."
"Do it."
I closed the laptop.
Fourteen months ago.
Beatriz had married me eighteen months ago.
She had registered that company four months into our marriage.
While we were still in what she had called the happiest year of her life.
I stood up and walked to the window.
The garden below was empty now.
The torn garbage bag was still on the stone near the dumpster.
No one had moved it.
A knock at the office door.
"Come in."
It was Rosa.
She stepped inside and closed the door softly behind her.
"Isabella is asking for you," she said.
"She's clean and her hands are bandaged.
But she won't sleep."
"I'll go up in a moment." I looked at her.
"Rosa.
I need to ask you something difficult."
She nodded.
"Did Beatriz ever mention money to you?
Transfers, accounts, anything financial?"
Rosa thought for a moment.
"Not directly.
But three months ago, a man came to the house.
Señora B.
met him in the garden.
I didn't hear what they discussed.
But afterward she was in a very good mood for the rest of the day." She paused.
"He came twice more after that.
Always when you were away.
Always in the afternoon."
"What did he look like?"
"Tall.
Dark hair going grey at the sides.
He drove a black Mercedes with a Málaga plate."
Félix Arroyo was tall.
Dark hair.
He drove a black Mercedes.
I had met him once at our wedding, briefly, and he had shaken my hand with both of his and told me Beatriz was the best thing that had ever happened to their family.
"Thank you, Rosa."
She moved to leave, then stopped.
"Sir.
There is one more thing.
I did not include it in the notebook because I was not certain it was relevant." She turned back.
"In April, I found something in the laundry.
In the pocket of a jacket Señora B.
had left for washing." She reached into her apron again and produced a folded piece of paper.
"I kept it because I didn't know what to do with it.
I was afraid to throw it away and afraid to leave it where she might find it again."
I took the paper and unfolded it.
It was a handwritten list.
Two columns.
On the left, property addresses — six of them, all properties I recognized as part of my portfolio.
On the right, estimated valuations.
At the bottom of the page, in different ink, a single line had been added:
*Transfer timeline — confirm with F before M returns.*
M.
My initial.
*Before M returns.*
She had written a timeline for transferring property valuations to her brother before I came home.
My hands were steady.
I had trained them to be steady in rooms far more dangerous than this one.
"Rosa," I said.
"I need you to do something for me."
"Anything, sir."
"Go upstairs.
Stay with Isabella.
Do not let Beatriz into that room under any circumstances.
If she tries, call my mobile immediately."
Rosa straightened.
"Yes, sir."
After she left, I sat down and looked at the list again.
Six properties.
The combined value on the page was just over ninety million euros.
This had never been about Isabella.
Isabella had been a distraction.
A way to keep the household running, to keep Rosa compliant through fear, to maintain the appearance of a normal home while the real operation happened in the background — in accounts registered to shell companies, in afternoon meetings in the garden, in a carefully spaced series of transfers that were almost too clean to notice.
Almost.
I picked up my phone and called Andrés again.
"I have a document," I said.
"Handwritten.
Property addresses from my portfolio with estimated valuations and a note referencing a transfer timeline coordinated with Félix Arroyo before my return."
Andrés was quiet for three full seconds.
"Where did you find it?"
"Rosa recovered it from Beatriz's jacket pocket in April."
"Marcos.
That document, combined with the financial trace, is enough to open a criminal fraud investigation."
I looked out the window again.
The garden.
The torn bag.
The stone path where Isabella had fallen and cut her knee and Rosa had cleaned the wound in secret.
"Then let's open one," I said.
Downstairs, I heard a door close.
Then heels on the marble floor of the entrance hall.
May you like
Moving toward the front door.
Beatriz was leaving.
