The younger guard looked at his partner. Do you think he’s telling the truth? The veteran shook his head. Everyone tells the truth when the end is near, but that doesn’t matter anymore. It mattered more than he imagined. At the Santa María home, Carmela watched Salomé with concern. Since she stopped speaking, the girl communicated only through drawings. She drew obsessively, filling page after page with the same image. Carmela gave her a new box of crayons.
“Can you show me what you see in your dreams, little one?” Salomé took the crayons and began to draw. This time the drawing was different, more detailed, as if five years of maturity allowed her to express what she couldn’t before. She drew the house, the living room, a figure on the floor, another standing in a blue shirt, but she added something new: a half-open door in the background and behind it another small figure, a girl with yellow hair, herself observing everything. And in the corner of the drawing, something Carmela didn’t expect: a hand sticking out of the house’s window, as if someone were helping the figure on the floor escape.
“What is this, Salomé?” Carmela asked, pointing at the hand. The girl wrote a single word beneath the drawing: “Mom.” Carmela felt the air leave her lungs. “Your mom escaped. Your mom is alive.” Salomé looked at her with those enormous eyes that seemed to carry the weight of the world. She nodded slowly. Then she wrote another hidden word and one last one: waiting. Gonzalo Fuentes arrived at the Santa María home two hours later, accompanied by two men in dark suits. He carried documents that supposedly returned Salomé to him temporarily.
“Order from the Third Family Court,” he announced, handing the papers to Carmela. “Signed by Judge Aurelio Sánchez. I’ve come to take my niece.” Carmela examined the documents. They seemed legitimate, but something inside her screamed at her not to hand over that girl. “I need to verify this with the appropriate authorities,” she said. “I can’t give up a minor without confirmation. The confirmation is in those papers, ma’am. Don’t waste my time. It’s not a matter of time, it’s a matter of protocol.”
Gonzalo took a step forward, invading Carmela’s space. “Listen to me carefully, that girl is my blood. Her father is going to be executed tomorrow.” She needs a family, not a charity home full of orphans. What that girl needs is protection, not more violence. Violence is accusing me of something. Carmela looked him straight in the eye. The bruises Salomé arrived with six months ago accuse me more strongly than any words I could ever say. Gonzalo’s face hardened.
I can get this place shut down. I can get you to lose your license. I can make sure you never work with children again. I just need one phone call. What Gonzalo didn’t know was that Carmela had activated the security recording system the moment she saw him arrive. Every word, every threat was recorded. Leave, Mr. Fuentes. I’m not going to hand that girl over to you, and if you threaten me again, I’ll use everything I have to destroy you. Gonzalo smiled coldly. I’ll be back, and when I do, I won’t be so nice.
Three hours later, Gonzalo returned. This time he didn’t knock. His men broke down the door. Carmela was ready. He had called the police after the first visit, but they still hadn’t arrived. When he heard the door slam, he took Salomé by the hand and led her to the safe room he had prepared for emergencies. “Stay here, little one, no matter what happens, don’t come out until I come for you.” Salomé nodded, her eyes filled with terror. Carmela went outside to confront Gonzalo.
The two men held her down while he searched every room for the girl. “Where is she?” Gonzalo shouted. “Where did you hide her?” “Away from you, where you’ll never find her.” Gonzalo approached Carmela and grabbed her by the neck. “I’m going to ask you just one more time. Where is Salomé?” “Go to hell.” At that moment, police sirens filled the air. Someone had seen the men break down the door and had called emergency services. The officers entered with their weapons drawn.
“On the ground, everyone on the ground.” Gonzalo released Carmela, trying to regain his composure as a respectable man. “Officer, this is a misunderstanding. I only came to pick up my niece. We have a recording of your previous visit,” the officer said. “Threats,”
Attempted abduction of minor trespass. He has the right to remain silent. As they handcuffed Gonzalo, Carmela smiled. The security footage had captured everything. Both visits, the threats, the violence. Gonzalo Fuentes had just destroyed his own freedom. News of Gonzalo’s arrest reached Judge Aurelio Sánchez in less than an hour.
His network of informants was efficient. “He’s an idiot,” he muttered as he dialed a number on his private phone. “I told him to be discreet. I told him to be patient.” The voice on the other end answered calmly. “What do we do now? Gonzalo is going to talk. As soon as they pressure him, he’ll negotiate. He’s a coward. He always has been. He can frame you. He knows too much. We have to activate plan B.” Aurelio walked to his safe and opened it. Inside were dozens of storage devices, videos, recordings, documents he had collected over decades, his life insurance policy, evidence of corruption involving politicians, businessmen, and judges.
If he went down, many would go down with him. “I’m going to make some calls,” Gonzalo said. “He won’t spend a single night in prison, but there’s another problem. The lawyer is worse, and the gardener, Martín Reyes. We intercepted a call last night. He’s alive and in contact with Dolores Medina. Where is she? San Jerónimo, at her mother’s house. The lawyer is going there today. Do you want us to intercept them?” Aurelio thought for a moment. “No, let her get there, let them meet, and when we have everyone together, we’ll solve all the problems at once.”
It was a clean, efficient plan. But Aurelio had underestimated his enemies, and it would cost him everything. Dolores arrived in San Jerónimo at noon. The journey had been long, and her body protested with aches and pains she preferred to ignore. Her doctor had warned her that the stress could kill her, but dying while seeking justice was preferable to living without ever finding it. Consuelo Reyes’s house was the same as before, but this time the old woman waited for her at the door with a nervous expression.
“My son is inside,” she whispered. “But he’s not the only one. There’s someone else who wants to see you.” Dolores went in. In the small living room, Martín Reyes sat in an old chair. He was a man of about 40, thin, with an unkempt beard and eyes that had seen too much. “Mrs. Medina,” he said, standing up. “Thank you for coming. Martín has a lot to explain, starting with how it’s possible that Sara Fuentes is alive.” Martín glanced toward the back door. I don’t need to explain.
She can do it better than I can. The door opened. A woman appeared in the doorway. She was thin, gaunt, with short hair and white streaks she hadn’t had before. But her eyes were unmistakable, the same eyes Dolores had seen in the photographs in the case file. Sara Fuentes was alive. “Mrs. Medina,” Sara said hoarsely. “I’ve been waiting for this moment for five years. Five years in hiding, watching my husband rot in prison for something he didn’t do. Five years separated from my daughter to protect her.
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