Something about Ramiro’s file had always unsettled him.
The evidence was solid:
Fingerprints on the weapon.
Bloodstained clothing.
A witness who swore he saw Ramiro leaving the house that night.
On paper, it was airtight.
But Méndez had spent thirty years studying faces.
Ramiro’s eyes were not the eyes of a guilty man.
“Bring the girl,” Méndez ordered.
THE WALK THROUGH IRON
Three hours later, a white van pulled up outside the prison gates.
A social worker stepped out.
Then an eight-year-old blonde girl with enormous eyes and a solemn expression.
Salomé Fuentes.
She did not cry.
She did not tremble.
She walked down the corridor lined with iron bars as prisoners fell silent around her. No one jeered. No one shouted.
There was something about her presence — something quiet and commanding — that silenced the entire wing.
THE WHISPER
When she entered the visiting room, Ramiro sat handcuffed to a steel table. His beard was thick. His uniform hung loosely on his frame.
