Chapter 4 - Marta's Envelope.
Rachel met us at the bakery before I arrived.
I had called her from the car and told her about Marta.
She did not hesitate.
"Do not meet a frightened witness alone."
Marta was waiting in a corner booth beneath a faded painting of the coast.
She looked smaller than I remembered.
Her dark hair was pulled into a loose bun.
She stood the moment Isabella entered.
Isabella stopped.
Then ran to her.
Marta dropped to one knee and hugged her.
For the first time since I had come home, Isabella cried.
Not because she was scared.
Because she was relieved.
"I thought you left because of me," Isabella whispered.
Marta pulled back and looked at her.
"Never."
"Beatriz said you were tired of me."
Marta's face changed.
She looked at me.
I felt something inside me go cold again.
Rachel sat beside Isabella and asked if she wanted hot chocolate.
Isabella nodded.
Rachel took her to the counter.
The moment they were out of earshot, Marta reached into her bag.
She placed a thick envelope on the table.
"I kept copies."
"Of what?"
"Everything I could."
Inside were printed emails, photographs, handwritten notes, and two small memory cards.
I stared at her.
"Start at the beginning."
Marta folded her hands.
"The cameras appeared about four months ago."
"That early?"
"Yes."
"Did Beatriz install them?"
"She had a man come while you were in Zurich."
"What man?"
"I don't know his real name."
"You spoke to him?"
"He said he was upgrading the alarm."
"Description?"
Marta nodded.
"Forties, tall, gray at the temples, expensive watch, small scar near his chin."
Rachel returned with Isabella and three cups.
Marta stopped talking.
Rachel understood.
She gave Isabella her phone and headphones at the next table.
"Cartoons?"
Isabella nodded.
Once the headphones were on, Marta continued.
"The man called Beatriz 'B.'"
I thought of the notebook initials.
R.M.
Maybe the man was not R.M.
Maybe B was simply Beatriz.
"What happened after the cameras went in?"
"At first, nothing."
Marta looked toward Isabella.
"Then Beatriz started asking where you kept papers."
"What papers?"
"Contracts."
"Did you tell her?"
"No."
"She asked me to clean your office after you left for trips."
"That sounds normal."
"It would have been."
Marta leaned closer.
"But she told me not to move anything on the desk before photographing it."
I stared at her.
"She said it was because you were particular."
"I am particular."
"I know."
Marta gave a sad smile.
"That is why it sounded believable."
"What changed?"
"One day I saw her in your office."
"With files?"
"With your laptop open."
My pulse quickened.
"Could she unlock it?"
"She had Isabella with her."
I looked toward my daughter.
She was watching an animated dog on Rachel's phone.
"What was Isabella doing?"
"Standing by the desk."
"Why?"
Marta's eyes filled with anger.
"Beatriz told her you had forgotten your password and needed help remembering it."
I felt sick.
Isabella knew my six-digit backup PIN because I had let her unlock the computer once to start a movie.
I had thought it was harmless.
"What happened?"
"She made Isabella type numbers until one worked."
"Did Isabella know what she was doing?"
"No."
Marta's voice broke.
"She thought she was helping you."
Rachel wrote something down.
"What did you do?"
"I confronted Beatriz after Isabella went to bed."
"And?"
"She told me I was imagining things."
"That sounds like her."
"The next day, she accused me of stealing a bracelet."
My eyes narrowed.
"She told me you wanted me gone."
"I never said that."
"I know that now."
"Why did you leave without calling me?"
"I tried."
"How?"
"Your office."
"No message reached me."
"I left three."
I thought about the fake school email address.
Someone had built a wall around me while I was traveling.
Messages came in.
But they were redirected.
Rewritten.
Buried.
Marta slid one printed page toward me.
It was an email she had sent to what she believed was my private address.
The reply came from the fake address.
Marta,
Beatriz has explained the situation.
I am disappointed that you involved Isabella in a household disagreement.
Your services are no longer required.
Please do not contact my daughter directly.
Aaron.
I read it twice.
The words sounded like me.
Short.
Formal.
Final.
Whoever wrote them understood my tone.
Marta looked at me.
"I believed it."
"I'm sorry."
"You didn't write it."
"But I created a life where it was believable that I would handle something important by email from another country."
Rachel interrupted gently.
"Do not take responsibility for somebody forging your identity."
I nodded, but the guilt remained.
Marta pushed the memory cards toward Rachel.
"What's on these?"
"The first is from the kitchen camera."
"How did you get it?"
"The old model had a removable card."
"Before the system changed?"
"Yes."
"What does it show?"
Marta looked toward Isabella again.
"Beatriz making her stand in the hallway after spilling juice."
"For how long?"
"Forty minutes."
My jaw tightened.
"And the second card?"
Marta swallowed.
"It is why I called you back today."
Rachel placed the card into a protective sleeve.
"What is on it?"
"A conversation."
"Between whom?"
"Beatriz and the man who installed the cameras."
My pulse quickened.
"What did they say?"
Marta hesitated.
"She asked him how many more weeks they needed."
"For what?"
"To get enough material."
"What material?"
Marta's eyes met mine.
"On you."
The bakery noise seemed to disappear.
"Explain."
"I don't know everything."
"Tell me what you heard."
"The man said they needed proof that you were emotionally unstable and absent from Isabella's life."
I stared at her.
"Why?"
"He said once the business deal was finished, Beatriz could file and control the story first."
Rachel stopped writing.
"File what?"
Marta looked at her.
"Divorce."
I leaned back.
For months, my wife had been recording my home, stealing business information, isolating my daughter, and apparently preparing a future version of events in which I was the dangerous parent.
But one detail did not fit.
"If she wanted footage of me being unstable, why record Isabella when I was gone?"
Marta's expression darkened.
"Because she wanted to make you react when you came back."
"How?"
"I heard her say she needed to 'push the right buttons.'"
I looked at Rachel.
She understood before I said it.
The chores.
The fear.
The hidden cameras.
If I came home, saw Isabella upset, and exploded at Beatriz on camera, that could become evidence stripped of context.
A father shouting.
A wife appearing calm.
A frightened child nearby.
The perfect short clip.
Rachel's voice was quiet.
"She was building scenes."
Marta nodded.
"She kept saying clips were more useful than whole days."
My mind returned to the EXPORT folder.
Hundreds of selected clips.
Not full recordings.
Moments.
Arguments.
Fragments.
Context removed.
I thought of every time my wife had called me during a stressful trip and pushed a small disagreement until I became irritated.
Every time she had placed the phone on speaker near a camera.
Every time she had asked why I was angry.
Every time I had said, "Not now," more sharply than I should have.
Were those clips saved too?
Rachel looked at Marta.
"What happened yesterday between 4:12 and 5:15?"
Marta's face went blank.
"I wasn't there."
"Do you know anything about it?"
"No."
I looked toward Isabella.
She had stopped watching the cartoon.
The headphones were still on, but her eyes were fixed on us.
I smiled at her.
She looked away.
We did not ask.
Before leaving, Marta gave me one last item.
A photograph.
It showed the man who installed the cameras standing beside my wife near the service entrance.
His face was clear.
I did not recognize him.
Rachel did.
She stared at the photograph for several seconds.
"What?" I asked.
She turned it toward me.
"That is Roland Mercer."
The name hit me.
Mercer Vale Consulting.
"Founder?"
"Former founder."
"What do you mean former?"
Rachel took out her phone.
"He sold his visible interest years ago."
"To whom?"
"Publicly, to an investment group."
She searched quickly.
Then stopped.
"But his son, Miles Mercer, is still their chief strategy officer."
I looked at the photograph again.
The scar near the chin.
Gray at the temples.
Expensive watch.
Roland Mercer had been inside my house.
Then Rachel found something else.
A society-page photograph from a charity gala five years earlier.
Roland Mercer stood beside several donors.
At the far edge of the image, smiling toward the camera, was my wife.
The caption identified her by a different last name.
Beatriz Cole.
Underneath it was another line.
Former executive assistant to Roland Mercer.
I read it twice.
My wife had told me she met Mercer only once.
May you like
She had worked for him for three years.
The House Without Red Lights
