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.”
“The strokes don’t match. I’m going to report you, Gonzalo. I’m going to make sure Ramiro gets back what you stole from him.” Gonzalo walked toward her with calculated calm.
“And you think anyone’s going to believe you? My partner, Aurelio, is a prosecutor. My connections reach all the way to the governor. Your word against mine is worthless. I have proof.” “Proof can disappear, and so can people.” Sara felt the weight of the threat, but she didn’t back down. “You have one week to return what you stole. If you don’t, I’m going to the police.”
“I’m going to the newspapers. I’m going wherever I have to.” Gonzalo smiled. That cold smile Sara had learned to fear. “One week, understood.” Outside the office, someone had overheard the entire conversation.
Martín Reyes, the gardener, had come to deliver some documents and had frozen behind the door. What he had just heard could cost him his life, and he wasn’t wrong. The town where Martín’s mother lived was called San Jerónimo. It was a place forgotten by time, with dirt roads and adobe houses that seemed to be held up by a miracle.
Dolores arrived after a four-hour journey. She found Consuelo Reyes’s house at the end of an unpaved road, next to a mango tree that shaded half the yard. Consuelo was a 75-year-old woman with a face marked by decades of hard work and recent years of pain. She opened the door warily. “What do you want?” “I’m a lawyer. I’m investigating a case related to the Fuentes family. I think your son Martín can help me.” Consuelo’s eyes filled with tears.
“My son disappeared five years ago. The police never looked for him. They told me he had probably gone to another country for work, but I know something happened to him.” Martín would never have abandoned me. She had contact with him before his disappearance. Consuelo hesitated for a moment. Then she went inside and returned with a crumpled letter. This arrived three days before he disappeared. Read it yourself. Dolores took the letter with trembling hands. Mom, if anything happens to me, I want you to know that I saw something terrible at the house where I work, something involving very powerful people.
I can’t say more in a letter, but I’m keeping evidence in a safe place. If anyone asks you, say, “You don’t know anything. I love you.” Your son Martín, where did he keep the evidence? Dolores asked. I don’t know, but if Martín says he has it, he has it. My son never lied. Dolores looked at the modest house, the empty yard, the mango tree. Martín Reyes had seen something that night. He had evidence, and someone had made him disappear, so the question was, was he still alive?
At an upscale restaurant in the city center, Gonzalo Fuentes and Judge Aurelio Sánchez were having dinner in a private room. The tension was palpable. “That lawyer is asking too many questions,” Aurelio said as he cut his steak. “She visited the prison, spoke with the warden, went to the home where they have the girl, and now I know she went to San Jerónimo.” Gonzalo stopped eating. “San Jerónimo, why would she go there? The gardener’s mother lives there, the one who disappeared. Martín is dead.”
“We made sure of that. Are you sure? We never found the body. What if he talked before we caught him? What if he left something that could incriminate us?” Gonzalo felt a cold sweat run down his back. “What do you suggest? Your brother’s execution is in 48 hours. Once that happens, the case is closed forever. No one is going to reopen an investigation for a man who’s already been executed. We need those 48 hours to pass without incident.” And the lawyer, Aurelio, took a sip of wine.
“He’s 68 years old and has heart problems. Accidents happen. Older people fall. He forgets to take his medication. He has emergencies in the middle of the day.” Night. Are you suggesting? I’m not suggesting anything. I’m saying you have 48 hours to
Solve this problem. How you solve it is your business. But if that woman presents anything in court before the execution, we’ll both go down. Gonzalo nodded slowly. He had come too far to stop now. One more death wouldn’t change anything, it would only secure his future.
Dolores arrived home exhausted. The trip to San Jerónimo had worn her out, but what she discovered was worth every mile. Martín Reyes was the key. She had evidence, she just needed to find him. She checked her mail before going inside. Among bills and flyers was a package with no return address, a heavy, padded envelope. She opened it carefully. Inside was a drawing. A crayon drawing, clearly by a very young child. It showed a house, a figure lying on the floor, and a man standing next to it.
The man was wearing a blue shirt. At the bottom, someone had written a date: 5 years ago, three days after Sara’s death. Dolores turned the drawing over. On the back was a message written in adult handwriting. If anyone sees this, it’s already too late, but if there’s still time, keep looking. The truth is closer than you think. Mr. Martín Reyes. Dolores felt her heart pound. Martín was alive. She had kept this drawing for five years, waiting for the right moment, and now, with the execution just days away, she had decided to act.
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