Gonzalo smiled. That cold smile Sara had learned to fear. One week, I understand. 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 was right.
The town where Martin’s mother lived was called San Jerónimo.
It was a place forgotten by time, with dirt streets and adobe houses that seemed to be held up by a miracle.
Dolores arrived after a 4-hour journey. She found Consuelo Reyes’s house at the end of an unpaved street, next to a mango tree that shaded half the patio.
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 suspiciously. “What do you want?” “I’m a lawyer. I’m investigating a case involving the Fuentes family.”
I think your son Martin can help me. Her eyes filled with tears of comfort.
