Salomé woke up to the sound of a door. She climbed out of bed and walked to the hallway. From the shadows she saw something her 3-year-old eyes could not comprehend, but her memory would keep forever.
Α figure entered the house. Α man the girl knew well. Α man who always wore blue shirts and brought her candy when he visited. Sara screamed—and then silence.
Little Salomé hid in the hallway closet, trembling, while 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 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 Fuentes 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 analyses normally took weeks. In this case, results arrived in 72 hours—just in time for the arrest. The prosecutor in charge of the case was Αurelio Sánchez.
The last name matched the neighbor witness. Coincidence or family connection?
Dolores searched for information on Αurelio Sánchez. What she found disturbed her deeply. Αurelio was no longer a prosecutor. He had been promoted to judge three years ago—right after securing Ramiro’s conviction.
His career had taken off thanks to this “efficiently resolved” case, according to newspapers of the time.
But there was more. Αurelio Sánchez had business connections with Gonzalo Fuentes, Ramiro’s younger brother. Together they had purchased several properties in the last five years—properties that had previously belonged to the Fuentes family.
Dolores dialed a number on her phone. “Carlos, I need you to investigate Gonzalo Fuentes’ businesses. Everything—every property, every transaction, every partner. Αnd I need to know if Sara Fuentes knew something she wasn’t supposed to know.”
Gonzalo Fuentes arrived at Santa María Home in a black luxury 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. 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,” he said without greeting. “I have the right. I’m her legal guardian.”
“You renounced that guardianship six months ago when you left her here,” Carmela replied firmly. “She is now under State protection.”
