Dolores needed to see it to believe it. Where is Sara now? Close by, but I can’t tell you where over the phone.
We don’t know who might be listening. I need you to come to my mother’s house in San Jerónimo tomorrow. I’ll explain everything there. Time is running out, Martín.
There are less than 30 hours left. I know, that’s why I decided to speak. Sara wanted to wait until she had all the legal evidence, but there’s no time left.
If Ramiro dies, Gonzalo wins for good. And Sara has sacrificed too much to allow that.
Dolores hung up the phone, her hands trembling. If this was true, it was the most extraordinary case of her career.
A woman who faked her death to protect her daughter. An innocent husband convicted of a crime that never happened.
A brother willing to destroy everything out of greed packed a small suitcase. Tomorrow he would travel to San Jerónimo. Tomorrow he would learn the whole truth.
What he didn’t know was that someone had intercepted the call. In his cell, Ramiro Fuentes slept for the first time in years without nightmares.
His daughter’s words had ignited something in him: hope.
But that night, sleep brought back memories he had blocked for five years. He saw himself on his couch at home, drunk, about to pass out.
She heard voices, Sara’s voice, first calm, then frightened, and another voice, a voice she knew well. “You shouldn’t have gotten involved in this, Sara. I warned you,” said Gonzalo.
Ramiro tried to move in his sleep. He tried to get up to defend his wife, but his body wouldn’t respond.
The alcohol had paralyzed him. He heard a bang, a scream, silence.
Then footsteps approaching him, a hand placing something in his, the cold of metal. When you wake up, this will be over, and you’ll be the perfect scapegoat, brother.
Ramiro woke up drenched in sweat, screaming. The guards rushed to his cell thinking he was trying to hurt himself, but Ramiro was just repeating a phrase.
Now I remember. Now I remember everything. My brother was my brother. I heard his voice. He put the gun in my hands while I slept.
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.
He drew obsessively, filling page after page with the same image. Carmela gave him a new box of crayons.
Can you show me what you see in your dreams, little one?
Salomé picked up 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 room, a figure on the floor, another standing with 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 did not expect: a hand sticking out of the window of the house, as if someone were helping the figure on the ground to escape.
“What is this, Salome?” 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 he 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 temporary custody of Salomé to him.
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 that girl over.
“I need to verify this with the relevant authorities,” he said.
I can’t release 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 carefully, that girl is my blood.
Her father is being 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 eyes. The bruises Salomé arrived with six months ago speak louder than any words I could utter. Gonzalo’s face hardened.
I can get this place shut down. I can get you to lose your license.
I can make sure she never works with children again. I just need one phone call. What Gonzalo didn’t know was that Carmela had activated the security recording system as soon as she saw him arrive.
Every word, every threat was recorded. Leave, Mr. Fuentes.
I’m not going to hand that girl over to him, and if he threatens me again, I’ll use everything I have to destroy him. Gonzalo smiled coldly. I’ll be back, and when I do, I won’t be so nice.
Three hours later, Gonzalo returned.
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