The guards stopped.
The social worker finally looked up from her phone.
And behind the observation glass, the choir Méndez felt that something was tense in the air, as if all the years of routine, of files and codes, had been waiting precisely for that second.
Ramira continued to tremble.
He looked at his daughter as if he saw a door appear in the middle of a wall.
—Tell them—whispered Salome, clutching tightly the fabric of her mother’s uniform—. Tell them what I told you.
Ramira raised her head, still pale, her eyes wide with shock at the revelation.
“My daughter… my daughter saw who it was,” she said, her voice breaking. “That night she was awake. She wasn’t asleep. She saw everything!”
The social worker stepped forward.
—Mrs. Fυeпtes, the pine puca declared that eп the iпformes.
Salome turned slowly towards her.
“Because nobody asked me properly,” he replied. “Everyone was asking me if I saw my mom. And yes, I saw her. But it wasn’t my mom who hurt me.”
The oldest guard let out a dry, servile laugh.
—That’s impossible. The girl was three years old when it happened.
—Three years and nine months —Salomé corrected herself without hesitation—. And I forgot because that night I was hiding under the dining room table with my rag doll. I was waiting for him. For him.
The choir—Médez had already left the observation room.
Eпtró coп paso rápido, siп hacer rυido, pero su preseпcia lleпó el cuarto de iпmediato.
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