Dolores examined the will. Something didn’t add up. Ramiro’s parents died six months before the crime. And this will surfaced after the conviction. Exactly. And the lawyer who validated it was Aurelio Sánchez. Before becoming a prosecutor, he practiced as a private attorney. This was one of her last cases before joining the Public Prosecutor’s Office.
Dolores felt the pieces were starting to fall into place. Then Aurelio validated a suspicious will that benefited Gonzalo. Later, he became a prosecutor and took the case against Ramiro. And now they’re both partners in real estate.
There’s more, Carlos said, lowering his voice. Sara Fuentes worked as an accountant before she got married. Five years ago, weeks before she died, she requested copies of several legal documents belonging to the Fuentes family, including her in-laws’ original will. The original will, different from the one Aurelio validated.
In the original, the land was divided between the two brothers. Dolores understood everything. Sara discovered the will was fraudulent, she was going to report it, and someone silenced her before she could.
That night, Carmela called Dolores, her voice trembling. “You have to come. It’s about Salomé. There’s something you need to see.” Dolores arrived home an hour later.
Carmela was waiting for her in her office, her expression grave. “The girl has nightmares every night,” Carmela said. “But there’s something I haven’t told her before, something I was afraid to mention.” What is it?
She screams a name. Every night the same name. But it’s not her father’s or her mother’s name, it’s another name. Which one? Martín. Martín cries out, “Help me!” over and over again. Dolores frowned.
That name didn’t appear on any Inosinot documents. Case. Who is Martín? I didn’t know until I checked the Fuentes family’s employment records. Martín Reyes was the gardener. He worked for them for three years and disappeared a week after Sara died.
No one looked for him, no one asked about him. He vanished without a trace. His mother lives in a small town four hours from here. She filed a missing person report, but the police never investigated. The case was closed. Dolores felt a chill, a potential witness disappearing right after the crime. A name a traumatized girl screams in her nightmares.
This was bigger than I imagined. I need Martín’s mother’s address,” Dolores said. “I already have it.” Carmela handed her a piece of paper.
“But be careful, ma’am. Whoever made that man disappear can make you disappear too.” Dolores put the paper in her pocket. “At my age, Carmela, I’m not afraid of disappearing. I’m afraid of disappearing without having done justice.” Five years earlier, two weeks before the tragedy, Gonzalo Fuentes’s office was on the tenth floor of a glass building in the financial district. Sara walked in unannounced, a manila folder in her hands, fire in her eyes.
“What does this mean?” she asked, throwing the documents onto Gonzalo’s desk. He looked at them without flinching. “Sara, what a surprise! Shouldn’t you be looking after my niece? Don’t change the subject.
I found your parents’ original will, the real one. Ramiro was entitled to half of that land. You forged it.” Gonzalo stood up slowly, closing his office door behind him. “Be careful with your accusations, sister-in-law. They’re very serious words.” “They’re not accusations, they’re facts. I hired an expert. The signature on the will you presented is forged.”
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