“Go away,” Carmela said. “Go now or I’ll call the police.” Gonzalo smiled. A cold smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
This isn’t over, ma’am. I’ll be back. And when I do, no one will protect that girl from her family. The prison visiting room felt colder than ever.
Ramiro waited handcuffed to the table, but his demeanor had changed. He was no longer the defeated man of two days ago. There was fire in his eyes.
Dolores sat down opposite him and studied him silently. My name is Dolores Medina. I was a criminal defense attorney for 40 years.
I saw your case on the news and I need you to tell me everything. Why does he care? Nobody believed me for five years.
Why would you be any different? Because 30 years ago I let an innocent man be condemned.
I couldn’t save him. That haunts me every night.
I’m not going to make the same mistake twice. Ramiro looked at her for a long time, assessing whether he could trust this stranger. Finally, he spoke. I drank a lot that night.
I had lost my job. I was devastated. I fell asleep on the sofa and don’t remember anything else until I woke up with blood on my hands and Sara on the floor.
I called emergency services, tried to help her, and when the police arrived they arrested me. Did you hear anything? Did you see anyone?
Nothing, but now I know something I didn’t know before.
Dolores leaned forward. “What did she say to you, Salomé?” Ramiro closed his eyes. When he opened them, they were filled with tears. “My daughter was there that night.”
She saw everything from the hallway. She was three years old and she saw everything. She told me that someone came into the house after I fell asleep. Someone she knew, someone she trusted.
Who? Ramiro uttered a name Dolores already suspected. My brother Gonzalo, my own flesh and blood.
Dolores arrived home after midnight. Ramiro’s revelations were swirling in her head. A traitorous brother, a child witness.
Five years of silence. Why did Salome never speak? What kept her quiet for so long? She opened the door and turned on the light. What she saw paralyzed her.
Her house had been searched. Drawers were open, papers were scattered on the floor, and books had been knocked off the shelves. Whoever broke in wasn’t looking to steal; they were looking for something specific.
The Fuentes case file walked carefully through the clutter to his desk.
The file was still there, seemingly intact, but on top of it was something that hadn’t been there before: a photograph.
It was an old photo of Sara Fuentes, smiling, young, full of life. Someone had drawn a red X over her face with a permanent marker. Underneath it was a handwritten note.
Some truths must remain buried. Stop investigating or you’ll end up like her. Dolores’s hands trembled, not from fear, but from rage.
Whoever sent this message did not know Dolores Medina.
I didn’t know that I had survived a heart attack, a failed marriage, and 40 years of facing criminals in court.
He didn’t know that threatening her was the worst possible strategy. He picked up his phone and called Carlos.
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