Chapter 4 - The Woman I Trusted Most Knew More About My Accident Than I DidHer name was Elena.
My personal assistant.
She had worked for me for eleven years.
She knew my schedule.
My finances.
My medical records.
My family.
Every secret.
I trusted her more than almost anyone.
That trust began to crack when Diego showed me surveillance footage.
The footage showed Elena entering my old rehabilitation clinic three days before the accident.
With Dr. Adrian Vega.
I watched twice.
Then again.
“What did they discuss?”
“We don't know.”
“Find out.”
Diego nodded.
Meanwhile, Lucía stayed at my home.
I hired a private tutor.
A pediatric doctor.
A psychologist.
A nutritionist.
She hated almost all of them.
She loved María.
That was fair.
Everyone loved María.
One night, I found Lucía in the kitchen.
She was sitting on the counter eating strawberries.
“Why are you awake?”
She shrugged.
“I had a dream.”
“What about?”
“A car.”
My heart stopped.
“Tell me.”
“You were inside.”
“Who else?”
“A woman.”
“Who?”
“I don't know.”
“What happened?”
“The car fell.”
My hands turned cold.
“Then what?”
“Someone came.”
“Who?”
She looked at me.
“You.”
I frowned.
“What?”
“You were standing.”
I stared at her.
“In your dream, I was walking?”
“Yes.”
“Then what?”
“You gave me something.”
“What?”
She held up her hand.
The white stone.
“Why?”
She shrugged.
“You said I would need it.”
I didn't understand.
Then she looked at me.
“Maybe it already happened.”
I wanted to dismiss it.
I couldn't.
The next morning, I confronted Elena.
“Why did you visit Dr. Vega?”
She froze.
“When?”
“Five years ago.”
She swallowed.
“I don't remember.”
“You should.”
“I don't.”
I showed her the footage.
She went pale.
“I was trying to help.”
“How?”
“I was investigating something.”
“What?”
She looked at the floor.
“Your brother's death.”
I felt anger rise.
“What about it?”
“He was supposed to inherit the company.”
“What does that have to do with Vega?”
Elena didn't answer.
I slammed my hand against the desk.
“Tell me.”
She began to cry.
“Your brother discovered financial fraud.”
“Whose?”
“Your father's business partners.”
“My father had been dead for years.”
“Yes.”
“Then who?”
“Your uncle.”
I froze.
“My uncle died when I was a child.”
“I know.”
“Then who?”
She whispered a name.
“Rafael Romero.”
My blood ran cold.
My uncle Rafael had supposedly died in Brazil fifteen years earlier.
I had attended the funeral.
But Elena revealed something horrifying.
There had never been a body.
The funeral had been private.
My father had insisted.
Rafael had disappeared after being accused of embezzlement.
My father had declared him dead.
Then moved on.
But if Rafael was alive—
he could have orchestrated my accident.
He could have manipulated the company.
He could have killed my brother.
He could have known about Lucía's mother.
I turned toward the window.
“Where is Rafael?”
Elena shook her head.
“I don't know.”
“Who does?”
She looked toward the door.
“Sofía.”
I froze.
“Sofía knows?”
“She discovered the same financial network.”
“And then disappeared.”
“Yes.”
I sat down.
Everything was connected.
My accident.
Sofía.
Lucía.
My brother.
Rafael.
The altered medical records.
But there was still one question.
Why would a five-year-old know how to trigger movement in my legs?
I took Lucía to a specialist.
The doctor examined her hands.
Then stared at me.
“Where did she learn this?”
“I don't know.”
“She has unusual sensory perception.”
“Meaning?”
“She can detect muscular microresponses far better than most adults.”
“Is that possible?”
“Yes.”
“But enough to influence nerve activity?”
The doctor hesitated.
“Not scientifically proven.”
I looked at Lucía.
She was drawing flowers on a piece of paper.
I asked:
“Have you ever been tested?”
She shook her head.
“Mom didn't like doctors.”
The doctor asked:
“Why?”
“She said they take things.”
“What things?”
Lucía became quiet.
“People.”
The doctor and I exchanged a glance.
That night, I searched Sofía Morales.
One file came up.
A private research paper.
Neural Reconnection Through Tactile Pattern Recognition.
The author was Sofía Morales.
The research suggested that specific touch patterns could stimulate dormant neurological responses.
It was experimental.
Unproven.
And the work had been funded by—
Romero Biomed.
My company.
I stared at the screen.
I had unknowingly owned the research.
My own company had paid for the work.
And my family had buried it.
I showed the paper to Lucía.
She smiled.
“That's what Mom taught me.”
“What?”
“How to wake sleeping things.”
“Does she still teach you?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“She's gone.”
I took her tiny hand.
“We'll find her.”
She squeezed my fingers.
“You promise?”
“I promise.”
She nodded.
Then whispered:
“Your uncle knows where she is.”
I froze.
“How?”
“He came to see me.”
“When?”
“Before you found me.”
My heart pounded.
“What did he look like?”
She drew a picture.
A tall man.
Dark coat.
Silver watch.
A scar over one eyebrow.
Rafael.
I knew immediately.
He had been watching her.
Watching me.
Waiting.
And the next morning, I received a message.
May you like
BRING THE GIRL TO THE OLD ROMERO MANOR. COME ALONE.
The sender was my uncle.
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