—It’s time they knew the truth.
Salome’s voice did not sound like that of a child.
It sounded clear, firm, strangely old-fashioned inside that small visiting room.
The guards stopped.
The social worker finally looked up from her phone.
And behind the observation glass, Colonel Méndez felt something tighten in the air, as if all the years of routine, of files and sentences, had been waiting for precisely that second.
Ramira was still trembling.
He looked at his daughter like someone who sees a door appear in the middle of a wall.
“Tell them,” Salome whispered, clutching the fabric of her mother’s uniform tightly. “Tell them what I told you.”
Ramira raised her head, still pale, her eyes wide with shock at the revelation.
“My daughter… my daughter saw who it was,” she said, her voice breaking. “That night she was awake. She wasn’t sleeping. She saw everything!”
The social worker stepped forward.
—Mrs. Fuentes, the girl never stated that in the reports.
Salome turned slowly towards her.
“Because nobody asked me properly,” he replied. “Everyone was asking me if I saw my mom. And yes, I saw her. But it wasn’t my mom who did the harm.”
The oldest guard let out a dry, nervous laugh.
—That’s impossible. The girl was three years old when it happened.
“Three years and nine months,” Salomé corrected without hesitation. “And I didn’t forget because that night I was hiding under the dining room table with my rag rabbit. I was waiting for him. For him.”
Colonel Méndez had already left the observation room.
He entered with quick steps, without making a sound, but his presence immediately filled the room.
“Who were you expecting?” he asked.
The girl looked at him without fear.
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