Her doctor had forbidden her from stressing herself. Her family had begged her to rest. But Dolores picked up her phone and looked up her former assistant’s number. Carlos said when he answered, « I need you to get me everything about the Fuentes case. Everything. » Before we continue with our story, I’d like to extend a very special greeting to our followers in the United States, Mexico, Colombia, Peru, Spain, Italy, Venezuela, Uruguay, Paraguay, the Dominican Republic, Puerto Rico, El Salvador, Ecuador, Bolivia, Chile, Argentina, Costa Rica, Cuba, Canada, France, Panama, Australia, Guatemala, Nicaragua, and Honduras.
Where in the world are you listening from? Comment so I can say hello. Blessings to all. Continuing with the story. The Santa María home was located on the outskirts of the city, surrounded by old trees and silence. Dolores arrived the next day, armed with an expired ID and the determination of someone who has nothing to lose. Carmela Vega, the director of the home, was a 70-year-old woman with wrinkled hands and eyes that had witnessed too much childhood suffering. She received Dolores in her office with suspicion.
“I don’t know what you’re trying to do, ma’am. The girl is under protection. She can’t have unauthorized visitors. I just want to talk to you,” Dolores said about Salomé, about how she got there. Carmela was silent for a moment, assessing the woman in front of her. Something about Dolores inspired trust. Perhaps it was her age, perhaps the weary gaze of someone who had fought many battles. “The girl arrived six months ago,” Carmela began. Her uncle Gonzalo brought her. He said he couldn’t take care of her anymore, that his business wouldn’t allow it.
But there was something strange. Strange. How so? The girl had marks, ma’am, bruises on her arms that no one wanted to explain, and since she arrived she’s hardly spoken. She eats little, sleeps even less, has nightmares every night. Dolores felt a chill. And after the meeting with her father, has he seen her? Carmela lowered her gaze. Since she returned from prison, Salomé hasn’t uttered a single word. The doctors say there’s nothing physical wrong. It’s as if something has closed up inside her, as if she’s said everything she needed to say and now she’s keeping silent forever.
Dolores glanced toward the window, where a blonde girl was playing alone in the yard. What had she told her father, Carmela? Did anyone know? No one. But whatever it was, it was destroying that girl from the inside. Five years earlier, the night that changed everything, the Fuentes house was quiet. Sara had put Salomé to bed early, as she did every night. The three-year-old slept clutching her teddy bear, oblivious to the hell that was about to break loose.
In the living room, Ramiro Fuentes was drinking his fourth glass of whiskey. He’d lost his job that week. The carpentry shop where he’d worked for 20 years had closed without warning. At his age, he didn’t know how to start over. Sara was on the phone in the kitchen. Her voice was a furious whisper. « I told you not to contact me anymore. What you did is unforgivable. If you don’t fix this, I’m going to talk. I don’t care what you threaten me with. » She hung up violently and saw Ramiro watching her from the doorway.
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 down on 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 up 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 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 surname matched that of the neighbor who had witnessed the case. 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 had 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 run down her spine.
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.”
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