Ramira collapsed back into the chair, shaking violently.
Five years.
Five years believing her daughter had slept through the nightmare.
Five years never knowing the child had been carrying the truth alone.
Méndez’s mind was already racing through the legal consequences unfolding in front of him.
If the girl’s testimony was accurate, the entire investigation had been built on a manipulated timeline.
Mateo had placed Ramira at the scene while hiding his own presence.
And Ramira’s fingerprints on the knife suddenly made terrible sense.
“He forced me to pick it up,” Ramira whispered suddenly, remembering something she had buried under years of trauma. “He said if I didn’t, he would hurt Salomé.”
The colonel’s expression hardened.
Everything was beginning to connect.
Mateo had manipulated the crime scene before calling the police.
And the system had accepted his version because it matched the evidence.
Evidence he had arranged himself.
“Why are you telling this now?” the social worker asked Salomé, still trying to process what she was hearing.
The girl looked down at her small hands for a moment.
“Because yesterday I saw him again,” she said quietly.
Every adult in the room felt a chill run through their bodies.
“Where?” Méndez asked immediately.
“Outside the orphanage,” Salomé answered. “He came in a car and watched the gate.”
Ramira stood again abruptly, panic flooding her face.
“He’s making sure I die,” she cried. “He wants the truth buried forever!”
The guards looked toward Méndez for instructions.
The colonel remained silent for several seconds, his eyes fixed on the little girl standing beside the table.
