Dolores spent the night reviewing hundreds of pages.
Everything pointed to Ramiro.
But small cracks appeared.
The neighbor, Pedro Sánchez, first described seeing “a man” leaving the house.
Three days later, he specified: Ramiro.
Why the change?
The forensic results returned in record time — seventy-two hours — unusually fast.
The prosecutor?
Aurelio Sánchez.
Same surname as the neighbor.
Coincidence?
Dolores dug deeper.
Aurelio was no longer a prosecutor.
He had been promoted to judge three years after the conviction.
His career skyrocketed after “efficiently solving” the case.
But there was more.
Aurelio had business ties to Gonzalo Fuentes.
Together they had purchased multiple properties over five years.
Properties that once belonged to the Fuentes family.
Dolores called Carlos.
“I want everything on Gonzalo’s finances. Every transaction.”
“And find out what Sara Fuentes discovered before she died.”
THE UNCLE
Gonzalo Fuentes arrived at Santa María in a luxury black car.
Perfect suit.
Blue tie.
Always blue.
Carmela felt a chill.
“I’m here for my niece,” Gonzalo said smoothly.
“She’s under state protection,” Carmela replied.
He stepped closer.
“She needs family. Not charity.”
“She needed protection when she arrived with bruises.”
His eyes darkened.
“Be careful what you imply.”
He smiled — but it did not reach his eyes.
“I have connections. I can shut this place down.”
Behind the office door, Salomé stood trembling.
Her eyes locked on her uncle.
Pure terror.
For a split second, Gonzalo’s mask slipped.
Carmela saw it.
Danger.
“Leave,” she ordered.
He smiled coldly.
“This isn’t over.”
THE NAME IN THE NIGHT
Later, Carmela called Dolores.
“There’s something else.”
Salomé screamed a name every night.
Not her father.
Not her mother.
“Martín.”
Martín Reyes.
The gardener.
He worked for the Fuentes family for three years.
He disappeared a week after Sara died.
No investigation.
No follow-up.
His mother filed a missing person report.
Closed.
Dolores felt the weight of it.
A child witness.
A missing gardener.
A forged will.
A corrupt prosecutor.
This was no longer a single crime.
This was a web.
And someone had spent five years making sure it stayed buried.
“I need Martín’s mother’s address,” Dolores said. “I already have it.” Carmela handed her a piece of paper.
“But be careful, ma’am. Whoever made that man disappear can make you disappear too.”
Dolores put the paper in her pocket. “At my age, Carmela, I’m no longer afraid of disappearing. I’m afraid of disappearing without having done justice.”
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