Chapter 4 - I STOPPED TRYING TO WALK
I canceled everything.
Board meetings.
Therapy assessment.
The surgical consultation Dr. Vidal scheduled.
All of it.
Diego placed twelve security officers around the mansion.
Tomás hated them.
“They make us look like prisoners.”
“They make you look difficult to approach.”
“Same thing.”
“You’re nine.”
“You’re rich.”
Apparently age was not the only thing making him dangerous.
Lucía had no complaints.
She discovered my indoor swimming pool and asked whether fish lived in it.
Nico found the kitchen.
María found all three children proper clothes.
Shoes became a negotiation.
Lucía wore them for eleven minutes.
Then removed them.
“I don’t like them.”
“It’s winter.”
“My feet like freedom.”
I looked at María.
“She sounds like you.”
“That is deeply insulting.”
For three days, the mansion changed.
I had spent five years making it quiet.
No guests.
No unnecessary staff.
No music after dinner.
Silence had felt controlled.
Now doors slammed.
Children ran.
Nico discovered the piano and played the same three wrong notes repeatedly.
Tomás stole books from my library and pretended he had not.
Lucía appeared beside my wheelchair whenever I looked too unhappy.
“You didn’t practice.”
“Practice what?”
“Walking.”
“I cannot walk.”
She folded her arms.
“Your toe disagrees.”
I almost smiled.
“I have more important things.”
“No.”
“Lucía.”
“You promised.”
“I promised what?”
“Food every day.”
“That part is happening.”
“And I help you walk.”
“That was your promise.”
She considered.
“Same deal.”
Then she placed both hands on my knees.
Not praying this time.
“Try.”
Nothing happened.
She frowned.
“Again.”
Nothing.
My frustration rose.
“I said no.”
Her hands dropped.
The hurt in her face made me immediately regret the tone.
“I’m sorry.”
She stared at my legs.
“You’re scared again.”
“I’m trying to keep you alive.”
“That’s different.”
“No, it isn’t.”
She looked at me with five-year-old certainty.
“My dad said bad people like when good people stop doing things.”
Then she walked away.
I sat there for a long time.
That afternoon, Dr. Vidal arrived at the mansion.
“You missed two appointments.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“I heard.”
She glanced toward the guards.
“Apparently.”
I told her I was postponing treatment.
She stared.
“Why?”
“Because I have three children under threat inside my house.”
“And your legs?”
“Can wait.”
She folded her arms.
“You waited five years.”
“I survived.”
“Did you?”
That irritated me.
“Careful.”
“No.”
She rolled closer to my wheelchair.
“You survived the accident. Then you stopped.”
I looked away.
Dr. Vidal continued:
“If someone sabotaged your treatment, giving up now is exactly what they wanted.”
Lucía’s words.
Bad people like when good people stop doing things.
Apparently everyone had conspired against my excuses.
“What do you need?”
“Electromyography. Updated imaging. Surgical consult.”
“How soon?”
“Tomorrow.”
I agreed.
The tests changed everything.
My left leg remained almost completely unresponsive.
But the right showed preserved motor pathways.
Weak.
Damaged.
Buried beneath scar tissue and chronic nerve compression.
Dr. Vidal brought in Dr. Samuel Ortega, a spinal surgeon from Madrid.
He studied the scans for nearly an hour.
Then:
“Who placed this hardware?”
“Serrano.”
Samuel pointed to two stabilizing screws.
“They are positioned unusually.”
“What does that mean?”
“One is creating chronic pressure near tissue that might still carry motor signals.”
María sat beside me.
“Could removing it help?”
“Possibly.”
“How much?”
Samuel shook his head.
“No honest surgeon gives percentages here.”
“Could he walk?”
“Maybe with braces. Maybe short distances. Maybe not.”
I stared at the scan.
Five years.
“What if this had been corrected immediately?”
Silence.
That was answer enough.
“How much function might I have had?”
Samuel looked uncomfortable.
“We cannot know.”
“But more?”
“Potentially.”
I closed my eyes.
For five years, Serrano had shown me scans.
Explained paralysis.
Repeated that surgery offered no value.
What if he knew the hardware was wrong?
What if it had been wrong intentionally?
The surgery was scheduled for the following week.
Then Diego called.
“We found Carlos.”
“Where?”
“Girona.”
“Alive?”
“Yes.”
“Police?”
“Watching him.”
“Why not arrest?”
“Your evidence shows financial crimes. Not the accident.”
“What about Javier?”
“Carlos may know.”
I looked toward Tomás.
He was across the room pretending not to listen.
“Bring Carlos back.”
“Legally.”
“Yes.”
That word still surprised people around me.
My family had spent generations solving problems outside courtrooms.
I had inherited the habit.
The wheelchair changed many things.
Maybe it could change that too.
Carlos was detained the next morning on financial fraud charges tied to the shell-company payments.
He asked for a lawyer.
Then asked to speak to me.
Alone.
I refused the alone part.
Diego stayed.
We met in a private interview room.
Carlos looked older than he had at the restaurant.
“You should have thrown the girl out when I told you,” I said.
He looked at me.
“I was trying to protect you.”
I laughed.
“Everyone who betrays me says that.”
“Rafael knows who she is.”
“I do too.”
“He knew before you.”
That stopped me.
“What?”
“Lucía coming into the restaurant wasn’t an accident.”
My chest tightened.
“Who sent her?”
“No one.”
“Then?”
“Rafael’s people have been watching the children for months.”
“Why?”
“Because Javier hid evidence.”
“The box?”
Carlos shook his head.
“No.”
“Then what?”
“Something stronger.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know.”
“Javier?”
Carlos looked away.
“Alive?”
Silence.
“Carlos.”
He finally nodded.
Tomás had been waiting outside.
I heard his breath catch through the partially open door.
I turned.
He stood there.
White-faced.
“My dad is alive?”
Carlos looked terrified now.
Not of me.
Of the boy.
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know anymore.”
Tomás stepped inside.
“You’re lying.”
“No.”
“You said he ran away.”
“Rafael made us say that.”
“What did you do to him?”
Carlos’s voice dropped.
“Your father found proof that Alejandro’s accident was ordered.”
The room stopped.
“By Rafael?” I asked.
Carlos looked at me.
“No.”
My blood went cold.
“If not Rafael, who?”
Carlos swallowed.
“Your father.”
I stared.
“My father died six years ago.”
Carlos nodded slowly.
“I know.”
Then he whispered:
May you like
“But the order to kill you was signed eight months before he died.”
---
