“Who were you talking to?” “No one.” Go to sleep. You’ve had enough to drink. Ramiro wanted to ask more questions, but the alcohol was already clouding his thoughts.
He slumped onto the living room sofa and closed his eyes. Within minutes, he was fast asleep. What happened next, Ramiro wouldn’t remember, but someone else would. Salomé woke to the sound of a door. She got out of bed and walked into the hallway. From the shadows, she saw something her three-year-old eyes couldn’t comprehend, but that her memory would forever hold.
A figure entered the house. A man the little girl knew well. A man who always wore blue shirts and brought her candy when he visited. Sara screamed, then silence. Little Salomé hid in the hallway closet, trembling, as the man in the blue shirt walked toward where her father slept. Dolores spent the entire night reviewing the Fuentes case file.
Hundreds of pages, photographs she preferred not to remember, testimonies, expert reports—everything pointed to Ramiro: his fingerprints, his clothes, his lack of a solid alibi. But there were cracks, small, almost invisible, but they were there.
The first witness, a neighbor named Pedro Sánchez, initially stated that he saw a man leaving the Fuentes house at 11 p.m. Three days later, in a second statement, he specified that it was Ramiro. Why the change? Who pressured him?
The physical evidence was processed in record time. Forensic analysis normally took weeks. In this case, the results arrived in 72 hours, just in time for the arrest. The prosecutor in charge of the case was Aurelio Sánchez.
The last name matched that of the neighbor witness. Coincidence or family connection? Dolores looked for information about Aurelio Sánchez. What she found deeply disturbed her. Aurelio was no longer a prosecutor.
He had been promoted to judge three years earlier, just after securing Ramiro’s conviction. His career took off thanks to this case, which he resolved with exemplary efficiency, according to the newspapers of the time.
But there was more. Aurelio Sánchez had business connections with Gonzalo Fuentes, Ramiro’s younger brother. Together they had bought several properties in the last five years.
Properties that once belonged to the Fuentes family. Dolores dialed a number on her phone. “Carlos, I need you to investigate Gonzalo Fuentes’s business dealings. Everything—every property, every transaction, every partner.
And I need to know if Sara Fuentes knew something she shouldn’t have.” Gonzalo Fuentes arrived at the Santa María home in a luxury black car that contrasted sharply with the modesty of the place. He wore an impeccable suit and a blue tie, always blue. Carmela saw him enter and felt a chill.
There was something about that man that reminded her of snakes. Elegant on the outside, venomous on the inside. “I’ve come to see my niece,” Gonzalo said without greeting her. “I have the right. I’m her legal guardian.”
“You relinquished that guardianship six months ago when you left her here,” Carmela replied firmly. “Now she’s under state protection. Circumstances have changed. With everything that’s happening with my brother, the girl needs a family. She needs someone to take care of her. To take care of her like you did before you brought her here with bruises on her arms.”
Gonzalo’s eyes darkened. “Be careful what you’re implying, ma’am. I have connections. Important connections. I can shut this place down in a week if I want to. You’re threatening me. I’m informing you. I want to see Salomé now.”
At that moment, Carmela noticed movement behind her office door. Salomé had heard everything. The girl was pale, trembling, her eyes fixed on her uncle. There was pure terror in that look. Gonzalo saw the girl too.
For a second, his mask of a respectable man slipped. What Carmela saw in his eyes convinced her of one thing. That man was dangerous, and Salomé knew it best. “No one. 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 across from 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 do you care?” “No one believed me for five years.” “Why would you be any different?” “Because 30 years ago, I let an innocent man be convicted.”
“I couldn’t save him. That haunts me every night. I’m not going to make the same mistake twice.” Ramiro stared at her for a long time, assessing whether he could trust this stranger. Finally, he spoke. That night I drank a lot. I’d 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 911, 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 toward…
“What did he tell 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 entered 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 swirled in her mind. A traitorous brother, a child witness. Five years of silence. Why had Salomé never spoken? What had kept her quiet for so long? She opened the door and turned on the light. What she saw paralyzed her. Her house had been ransacked. Drawers open, papers on the floor, books knocked off the shelves. Whoever had entered wasn’t looking to steal; they were looking for something specific. The Fuentes case file was carefully carried through the mess to her desk.
The file was still there, seemingly untouched, but on top of it was something new: 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 didn’t know Dolores Medina.
They didn’t know she had survived a heart attack, a failed marriage, 40 years of facing criminals in court. They didn’t know that threatening her was the worst possible strategy. She picked up her phone and called Carlos. “Someone broke into my house. Do they know I’m investigating? That means there’s something they don’t want me to find out. Double your efforts. I want to know everything about Gonzalo Fuentes, about Judge Aurelio Sánchez, and about any connection between them. And I want to know what Sara discovered before she died.”
Outside, a black car was parked at the end of the street. Inside, someone watched Dolores’s house with the patience of a predator. The hunt had begun. Ticarlos worked all night and delivered his findings to Dolores at a discreet café far from the city center. What he brought was explosive. Gonzalo Fuentes went from being an office worker to a real estate developer in less than two years, he explained, spreading documents on the table. Right after his brother was convicted, he started buying properties.
Many properties. With what money? That’s the point. He inherited his parents’ land. Land that supposedly belonged to Ramiro as well. But according to this will, Carlos pointed to a document. The parents left everything to Gonzalo.
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