I didn’t know she had survived a heart attack, a failed marriage, 40 years of facing criminals in court. I didn’t know that threatening her was the worst possible strategy. He picked up his phone and called Carlos. Someone broke into my house. Do they know I’m investigating? That means there’s something they don’t want me to find out. Double your efforts. I want to know everything about Gonzalo Fuentes, about Judge Aurelio Sánchez, and about any connection between them. And I want to know what Sara discovered before she died.
Outside, a black car was parked at the end of the street. Inside, someone watched Dolores’s house with the patience of a predator. The hunt had begun. Ticarlos worked all night and delivered his findings to Dolores at a discreet café far from the city center. What he brought was explosive. Gonzalo Fuentes went from being an office worker to a real estate developer in less than two years, he explained, spreading documents on the table. Right after his brother was convicted, he started buying properties.
Many properties. With what money? That’s the point. He inherited his parents’ land. Land that supposedly belonged to Ramiro as well. But according to this will, Carlos pointed to a document. His parents left everything to Gonzalo. Dolores examined the will. Something didn’t add up. Ramiro’s parents died six months before the crime. And this will surfaced after the conviction. Exactly. And the lawyer who validated it was Aurelio Sánchez. Before becoming a prosecutor, he practiced private law. This was one of his last cases before joining the Public Prosecutor’s Office.
Dolores felt the pieces were starting to fall into place. Then Aurelio validated a suspicious will that benefited Gonzalo. Later, he became a prosecutor and took the case against Ramiro. And now they’re both partners in real estate. There’s more, Carlos said, lowering his voice. Sara Fuentes worked as an accountant before she got married. Five years ago, weeks before she died, she requested copies of several legal documents belonging to the Fuentes family, including her in-laws’ original will. The original will, different from the one Aurelio validated.
In the original will, the land was divided between the two brothers. Dolores understood everything. Sara discovered the will was fake, was going to report it, and someone silenced her before she could. That night, Carmela called Dolores, her voice trembling. “You have to come. It’s about Salomé. There’s something you need to see.” Dolores arrived at the home an hour later. Carmela was waiting for her in her office, her expression grave. “The girl has nightmares every night,” Carmela said. “But there’s something I haven’t told you before, something I was afraid to mention.” What is it?
She screams a name. Every night the same name. But it’s not her father’s or her mother’s name, it’s another name. Which one? Martín. She screams Martín, « Help me, » over and over again. Dolores frowned. That name didn’t appear on any Inosinot documents. Case. Who is Martín? I didn’t know until I checked the Fuentes family’s employment records. Martín Reyes was the gardener. He worked for them for three years and disappeared a week after Sara died.
No one looked for him, no one asked about him. He disappeared without a trace. His mother lives in a small town four hours from here. She filed a missing person report, but the police never investigated. The case was closed. Dolores felt a chill, a potential witness vanishing right after the crime. A name a traumatized girl screams in her nightmares. This was bigger than she imagined. “I need Martín’s mother’s address,” Dolores said. “I 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 not afraid of disappearing anymore. I’m afraid of disappearing without having done justice.” Five years earlier, two weeks before the tragedy, Gonzalo Fuentes’s office was on the tenth floor of a glass building in the financial district. Sara walked in unannounced with a manila folder in her hands and fire in her eyes.
« What does this mean? » she asked, throwing the documents onto Gonzalo’s desk. He glanced at them without flinching. « Sara, what a surprise! Shouldn’t you be taking care of my niece? Don’t change the subject. I found your parents’ original will, the real one. Ramiro was entitled to half of that land. You forged it. » Gonzalo stood up slowly, closing his office door. « Be careful with accusations, sister-in-law. These are very serious words. » « They’re not accusations, they’re facts. I hired an expert. The signature on the will you presented is a forgery. »
The lines don’t match. I’m going to report you, Gonzalo. I’m going to make sure Ramiro gets back what you stole. Gonzalo walked toward her with calculated calm. And you think anyone’s going to believe you? My partner Aurelio is a prosecutor. My connections reach all the way to the governor. Your word against mine is worthless. I have proof. Proof can disappear, and so can people. Sara felt the weight of the threat, but she didn’t back down. You have one week to return what you stole. If you don’t, I’m going to the police.
I’ll go to the newspapers. I’ll go wherever necessary. Gonzalo smiled. That cold smile Sara had learned to fear. One week, understood. Outside the office, someone had overheard the entire conversation. Martín Reyes, the gardener, had come to deliver some documents and had frozen behind the door. What he had just heard could cost him his life, and he wasn’t wrong. The town where Martín’s mother lived was called San Jerónimo. It was a place forgotten by time, with dirt roads and adobe houses that seemed to be held up by a miracle.
Dolores arrived after a four-hour journey. She found Consuelo Reyes’s house at the end of an unpaved road, next to a mango tree that shaded half the yard. Consuelo was a 75-year-old woman with a face marked by decades of hard work and recent years of pain. She opened the door warily. « What do you want? » « I’m a lawyer. I’m investigating a case related to the Fuentes family. I think your son, Martín, can help me. » Consuelo’s eyes filled with tears.
My son disappeared five years ago. The police never looked for him. They told me he’d probably gone to another country for work, but I know something happened to him. Martín would never have abandoned me. I had contact with him before he disappeared. Consuelo hesitated for a moment. Then she went inside and came back with a crumpled letter. This arrived three days before he disappeared. Read it yourself. Dolores took the letter with trembling hands. Mom, if anything happens to me, I want you to know that I saw something terrible at the house where I work, something that involves very powerful people.
I can’t say more in a letter, but I have evidence in a safe place. If anyone asks you, say, « You don’t know anything. I love you. » « Your son, Martín, where did he keep the evidence? » Dolores asked. « I don’t know, but if Martín says he has it, he has it. My son never lied. » Dolores looked at the modest house, the empty yard, the mango tree. Martín Reyes had seen something that night. He had evidence, and someone had made him disappear. That’s why the question was, was he still alive?
In an upscale downtown restaurant, Gonzalo Fuentes and Judge Aurelio Sánchez were dining in a private room. The tension was palpable. “That lawyer is asking too many questions,” Aurelio said as he cut his steak. “She visited the prison, spoke with the warden, went to the home where they have the girl, and now I know she went to San Jerónimo.” Gonzalo stopped eating. “San Jerónimo? Why would she go there? The gardener’s mother lives there, the one who disappeared. Martín is dead.”
We made sure of that. Are you sure? We never found the body. What if he talked before we reached him? What if he left something that could incriminate us? Gonzalo felt a cold sweat run down his back. What do you suggest? Your brother’s execution is in 48 hours. Once that happens, the case is closed for good. No one is going to reopen an investigation for a man who’s already been executed. We need those 48 hours to pass without incident. And the lawyer, Aurelio, took a sip of wine.
She’s 68 and has heart problems. Accidents happen. Older people fall. She forgets to take her medication. She has emergencies in the middle of the night. Are you suggesting anything? I’m not suggesting anything. I’m saying you have 48 hours to resolve this issue. How you resolve it is your business. But if that woman files a lawsuit before the execution, we’ll both go down. Gonzalo nodded slowly. He had gone too far to stop now. One more death wouldn’t change anything; it would only secure his future.
Dolores arrived home exhausted. The trip to San Jerónimo had worn her out, but what she discovered was worth every mile. Martín Reyes was the key. She had proof; she just needed to find him. She checked her mail before going inside. Among bills and flyers was a package with no return address, a heavy, padded envelope. She opened it carefully. Inside was a drawing. A crayon drawing, clearly by a very young child. It showed a house, a figure lying on the floor, and a man standing next to it.
The man wore a blue shirt. At the bottom, someone had written a date: 5 years ago, three days after Sara’s death. Dolores turned the drawing over. On the back was a message written in adult handwriting: « If anyone sees this, it’s too late, but if there’s still time, keep searching. The truth is closer than you think. Mr. Martín Reyes. » Dolores felt her heart pound. Martín was alive. She had kept this drawing for five years, waiting for the right moment, and now, with the execution just days away, she had decided to act.
But why send a drawing by a little girl? What was she trying to say? She examined the drawing again, the blue shirt, the photos Carlos had shown her. Gonzalo always wore blue shirts. Salomé had drawn what she saw that night. At three years old, she had created the evidence that could save her father, and someone had kept it all this time. Dolores needed to confirm the drawing’s authenticity. She contacted an old friend, Patricia Méndez, a forensic psychologist with 30 years of experience in childhood trauma cases.
They met in Patricia’s office the next day. Time was running out. Less than 40 hours remained. Patricia examined the drawing with a magnifying glass, taking notes. The strokes are consistent with a child between three and four years old, she said. The pressure of the crayon, the shapes of the figures, the limited perspective. This drawing is authentic. Dolores, a young child, made it. Could it represent real trauma? Undoubtedly, children who witness traumatic events often process them through art.
This drawing depicts a violent scene: one figure on the ground, another standing in a dominant position. The use of red here indicates stains on the lying figure. This suggests the child understood that there was blood, and the man in the blue shirt is the most significant detail. Traumatized children remember specific elements—colors, smells, sounds. If the girl drew a blue shirt, it’s because the actual aggressor wore a blue shirt. That’s a sensory memory, not a fabrication.
Dolores showed the photographs of Gonzalo that Carlos had collected. In every single one, without exception, he was wearing shades of blue. Ramiro Fuentes always wore dark colors, Dolores said. Black, gray, brown, never blue. Patricia nodded. If you can prove that the girl drew this days after the event, you have psychological evidence that she saw someone other than her father commit the crime. It’s not legal proof on its own, but combined with other elements, it could reopen the case. Exactly. Dolores carefully put the drawing away.
I had one piece of the puzzle, but I needed more. I needed to find Martín. Carlos arrived that night with more information. He had investigated Sara Fuentes’s past and found something crucial. Sara had a close friend, Beatriz Sánchez. They had known each other since college. According to phone records I was able to obtain, Sara spoke with Beatriz the night before she died. A 40-minute call. Beatriz Sánchez was related to Aurelio, her cousin, but they hadn’t spoken in years. There had been a family fight a while back.
Beatriz lives on the outskirts of the city. She’s a retired nurse. Dolores visited Beatriz that same afternoon. She was a 60-year-old woman who lived alone with three cats and memories of better times. Sara called me that night, Beatriz confirmed. She was scared. She told me she’d discovered something about Gonzalo, Ramiro’s brother—fraud involving their parents’ will. What else did she say? That Gonzalo had been harassing her since before they were married. Ramiro never knew. Sara didn’t want to cause problems between the siblings, but in recent months Gonzalo had become more aggressive.
He threatened her if she didn’t keep quiet about the will. Why did she never tell the police about this? Beatriz lowered her gaze. My cousin Aurelio visited me two days after Sara died. He told me that if I opened my mouth, he would investigate my taxes, find irregularities I didn’t even know about. He told me he could destroy my life with one phone call. I was afraid, Dolores. I was afraid and I kept quiet. And I’ve lived with that guilt for five hundred years. Would you be willing to testify now?
Beatriz looked out the window where the sun was beginning to set. Sara was my best friend. I let her innocent husband be condemned out of cowardice. If testifying now can fix any of the things I did wrong, I’m willing. Dolores left Beatriz’s house with a recording of her testimony and renewed hope. But when she got to her car, she noticed something strange: a black vehicle parked at the end of the street, the same model she had seen in front of her house days before.
She pretended not to notice and drove home. The black car followed her at a distance. Dolores changed course, taking side streets. The car was still following her. Her heart pounded, but she remained calm. In her years as a lawyer, she had faced worse threats. Finally, she stopped in a well-lit area across from a police station. The black car drove past, but something fell from its window as it sped off. Dolores waited a few minutes before getting out, then picked up the object from the ground—a religious medal, the kind mothers give their children for protection.
His initials were engraved on it. Mr. Martín Reyes. He was following her. Not Gonzalo’s men. Martín. Dolores looked around for the black car, but it was gone. However, now she was certain of one thing. Martín was alive, he was close, and he was trying to communicate. The question was, why wasn’t he showing himself openly? Who was he so afraid of that he preferred to remain in the shadows after five years? The answer would come sooner than she expected. That night, Dolores couldn’t sleep.
He gathered all the pieces on his table. Salomé’s drawing, Martín’s medal, the forged will, Beatriz’s recording, the connections between Gonzalo and Aurelio. Everything pointed in one direction. Ramiro was innocent. Gonzalo had attacked Sara to silence her. Aurelio had manipulated the case to protect his partner, but something was missing: direct testimony from someone who had seen what happened that night. Salomé couldn’t talk. Martín was in hiding. Without an eyewitness, everything else was circumstantial.
The clock struck 3 a.m., less than 30 hours until the execution. Then Dolores’s phone rang, an unknown number. Mrs. Medina. The voice was male, trembling. Who is this? My name is Martín. Martín Reyes. I know you’ve been looking for me, and I know time is running out. Dolores felt her heart stop. Where are you? Why are you hiding? Because if they find me, they’ll kill me, like they tried to five years ago. But I can’t stay silent any longer.
They’re going to execute an innocent man, and I have the evidence to save him. What evidence? A long silence. The night Sara died, I was there. I saw everything, and I saw something else that no one knows, something that changes everything you think you know about this case. What did you see? Sara Fuentes didn’t die that night, Mrs. Medina. I got her out of that house before Gonzalo finished her off. Sara is alive, and she’s been waiting for this moment for five years. And Dolores couldn’t process what she had just heard.
Sara Viva, five years in hiding while her husband awaited execution. That’s impossible, he said. There was a funeral, a death certificate. The body—the body was so badly damaged that identification was based on records. Dental records, Martín interrupted. Records that Aurelio Sánchez had falsified. The body they buried wasn’t Sara. Whose was it then? A woman with no family who died that same week in a hospital. Aurelio has connections at the morgue. He made the switch. It was all planned to bury the case along with the supposed victim.
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