Chapter 8 - THE NIGHT SOFIA DIED
Lucas returned voluntarily.
That mattered.
Not enough to clear him.
But it mattered.
He landed in Madrid and was questioned for eleven hours.
I did not attend.
I stayed with Isabella.
Some answers should be chased immediately.
Others can wait when your child finally asks you to help build a Lego castle.
At 7:30 that evening, Inspector Ortega called.
“Your brother admitted the meeting.”
“What else?”
“He says the device Beatriz handed him was a tracker.”
My stomach tightened.
“Why was it on Sofia’s car?”
“He says Beatriz placed it there earlier.”
“Why?”
“To know whether Sofia met police.”
I closed my eyes.
“So Lucas knew Sofia was being tracked.”
“Yes.”
“Did he remove it?”
“He says he intended to.”
“But he threw it away.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“He panicked after Sofia drove away.”
My voice hardened.
“And forty-seven minutes later she was dead.”
“Correct.”
“Did the tracker cause the accident?”
“No evidence of that.”
“Could it?”
“Unlikely.”
I exhaled.
“Then what caused the accident?”
“That is what we’re trying to determine.”
The original investigation had concluded Sofia entered a curve too quickly on wet pavement.
No mechanical defect was identified.
But the car had been destroyed years earlier.
Physical evidence was gone.
We might never know.
Then Ortega added:
“Beatriz has changed her statement.”
“Again.”
“She says she followed Sofia.”
My body went cold.
“Where?”
“To the mountain road.”
“Why?”
“She wanted to confront her.”
“Did she?”
“According to Beatriz, yes.”
I stood.
“What happened?”
“Beatriz claims Sofia stopped at a viewpoint.”
That detail had never been in the police file.
“How would she know?”
“Exactly.”
Ortega continued.
“She says they argued.”
“About what?”
“Your family. The foundation. Lucas.”
“Then?”
“Beatriz says Sofia drove away.”
“Alive?”
“Yes.”
“And Beatriz?”
“Claims she turned around and returned to Málaga.”
“Do you believe her?”
“No.”
Neither did I.
Police examined old mobile phone records.
Most had long since disappeared.
But toll-road data still existed in archived corporate billing records.
Sofia’s vehicle entered the mountain road.
Beatriz’s rental car entered twelve minutes later.
Beatriz’s car did not exit the far side until two hours after the crash.
She had been nearby.
The night of Sofia’s death.
And she had hidden that fact for fourteen years.
When Marta told me, I had to sit down.
I had spent years replaying my final conversation with Sofia.
She had called from the car.
“Tell Isabella Mommy loves her.”
Isabella was four.
She had been asleep.
I joked that Sofia could tell her herself in the morning.
Sofia had gone quiet.
Then said:
“Adrian, if anything ever feels wrong, don’t protect appearances.”
I thought she was talking about my father.
Our company.
The foundation.
Now I wondered whether she had been afraid for her life.
I had dismissed her words.
Not because I didn’t care.
Because danger did not fit inside the world I believed I lived in.
That may be the most dangerous thing about trust.
When it is deep enough, evidence can stand directly in front of you and still look impossible.
Three days later, prosecutors formally charged Beatriz with multiple offenses related to fraud, child cruelty, falsification, and obstruction.
Further charges connected to Sofia’s death remained under investigation.
Sergio faced financial and conspiracy charges.
Varela lost his medical license pending proceedings and faced criminal prosecution.
Cordero’s office was searched.
Lucas resigned from Serrano Prime.
He did it before the board could remove him.
Then he asked to see me.
I almost refused.
Marta advised against private contact.
We met at her office with two lawyers present.
Lucas looked older.
Not slightly.
Ten years older.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
I sat opposite him.
“For which part?”
He closed his eyes.
“All of it.”
“That is convenient.”
“I know.”
“Did you kill Sofia?”
“No.”
“Did Beatriz?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you know she followed Sofia?”
“No.”
“Did you know she put the tracker on Sofia’s car?”
“Yes.”
“And you did nothing.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I was scared.”
I laughed once.
Not because it was funny.
Because it was pathetic.
“You were scared.”
“Yes.”
“My wife was being followed and you were scared.”
“I thought Beatriz wanted leverage.”
“So you let her.”
“I thought I could fix everything later.”
There it was.
The curse of men like us.
Later.
We built fortunes believing every disaster could be repaired after the meeting.
After the quarter.
After the deal.
After the crisis.
Children do not live in later.
Neither do dead wives.
“I spent five years believing Sofia died because of rain.”
Lucas’s eyes filled.
“I know.”
“You watched me bury her.”
“I know.”
“You held Isabella at the funeral.”
His face broke.
“I know.”
I leaned forward.
“And you said nothing.”
He cried.
I felt nothing.
Maybe someday I would.
Not then.
“Why did Father hide it?”
“To protect me.”
“Of course.”
“He thought if police knew about the tracker, they would think I caused the accident.”
“Maybe they should have investigated that.”
“Yes.”
I sat back.
“Sofia was right.”
Lucas looked confused.
“About what?”
“Protecting appearances.”
I stood.
“We’re done.”
As I reached the door, he said my name.
I stopped.
“There is one thing you should know.”
I turned.
“Beatriz called me the night Sofia died.”
My body froze.
“When?”
“About twenty minutes after the estimated crash time.”
“What did she say?”
Lucas swallowed.
“She said, ‘It’s over.’”
Every sound in the room disappeared.
“What did you think she meant?”
“I thought she meant the blackmail.”
“You believed that?”
“I wanted to.”
“What else?”
“She was crying.”
“Did she say Sofia’s name?”
“No.”
“Anything about the accident?”
“No.”
“Why didn’t you tell police?”
“Because that call placed Beatriz near everything. And once they investigated her, they would find me.”
Always himself.
Always protection.
I left without another word.
That evening, I told Isabella a simplified version.
Not about trackers.
Not about death investigations.
Only that Uncle Lucas had made serious mistakes and would not be around for a while.
“Is he bad?”
She asked.
I thought carefully.
“I think he did bad things.”
“Is that different?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
I looked at her.
“Because if we decide people are only good or bad, we stop asking them to take responsibility for what they choose.”
She thought about this.
“Beatriz chose a lot.”
“Yes.”
“Did Uncle Lucas choose not to help?”
“Yes.”
She nodded slowly.
“That’s bad too.”
“Yes.”
Children often reach moral clarity faster than adults because they have fewer excuses.
A week later, forensic accountants made the discovery that finally explained the life insurance policy.
The application had been created from Sergio’s company network.
But the premium was paid from an account belonging to Beatriz.
The policy beneficiary was Beatriz.
Yet the person who submitted the final documents used Dr. Varela’s credentials.
All three were involved somehow.
Under pressure, Sergio confessed.
Beatriz had proposed the policy.
He had arranged the paperwork.
Varela signed medical statements.
But Sergio insisted the plan was not murder.
It was supposed to be leverage.
If I ever discovered the financial theft, Beatriz planned to threaten exposure of the forged policy and claim I had participated in insurance fraud.
A bizarre insurance policy against my anger.
Then Beatriz independently obtained sedatives.
That part frightened Sergio.
He began pulling away.
The scheme collapsed into suspicion.
Everyone recording everyone.
Everyone preparing to betray everyone else.
Greed rarely builds loyal conspiracies.
It builds temporary alliances between frightened people.
The most important breakthrough came from an old voicemail recovered from a backup belonging to my father.
Sofia had left it the night she died.
Her voice filled the investigator’s office.
Calm.
Firm.
Alive.
“Eduardo, I met Lucas. He’s frightened, but I don’t think he means harm. Beatriz followed me. I saw her car. I’m stopping at the Mirador del Valle because I need to know what she wants. If she threatens me again, I’m going directly to police.”
The message ended.
There was no doubt now.
Beatriz had confronted Sofia minutes before the crash.
Police arrested her on an additional count related to obstruction in the historical investigation.
But they still lacked proof she caused the accident.
Then one sentence in the old crash report caught Mateo’s attention.
A witness had reported seeing “a dark vehicle leaving the overlook rapidly.”
The witness’s name was still in the file.
An elderly truck driver named José Martín.
He was eighty-one now.
Alive.
And he remembered more than anyone had asked him fourteen years earlier.
“I saw two women,” José told investigators.
“One was beside the silver car. One was beside the dark car.”
“Were they arguing?”
“Yes.”
“Did you see physical contact?”
He hesitated.
“I saw the dark-haired woman reach inside the silver car.”
“What did she do?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then?”
“The silver car left.”
“How long before the crash?”
“Maybe five minutes.”
“Did the other woman follow?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
José closed his eyes.
“The dark car stayed very close.”
My heart stopped.
“Close how?”
“Too close.”
He looked at me through the recorded interview.
“Like she was trying to scare her.”
Maybe Beatriz never touched Sofia’s brakes.
Maybe there was no mechanical sabotage.
Maybe she simply chased a frightened woman down a wet mountain road.
The distinction mattered legally.
It did not matter to me.
May you like
Sofia had been right to be afraid.
And fear had followed her into the final minutes of her life.
