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.”
Five years earlier, two weeks before the tragedy, Gonzalo Fuentes’ office was on the tenth floor of a glass building in the financial center.
Sara entered 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 looked 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.
