Thirty years earlier, as a young lawyer, she had been unable to save a man with identical eyes. He served fifteen years in prison before the real murderer was arrested. In the meantime, he had lost his wife to cancer, his children to foster care, and ultimately, his will to live. Since then, Clara had carried this burden of failure like a stone on her chest.
Now, staring into Mateo’s face, she felt the old wound reopen.
Her cardiologist had strictly forbidden her from experiencing any stress. Her children had begged her to stay retired.
Clara nevertheless picked up her phone and scrolled through the numbers until she found that of her former legal assistant.
When Carlos replied, she wasted no time with greetings.
“I need the complete file on the Vargas case. Absolutely everything. Transcripts, evidence records, witness statements, property deeds—absolutely everything.”
Before continuing, I would like to extend a warm greeting to all those who have been following me from the United States, Mexico, Colombia, Peru, Spain, Italy, Venezuela, Uruguay, Paraguay, the Dominican Republic, Puerto Rico, El Salvador, Ecuador, Bolivia, Chile, Argentina, Costa Rica, Cuba, Canada, France, Panama, Australia, Guatemala, Nicaragua, Honduras, and right here in Vietnam—especially my friends in Ho Chi Minh City. Wherever you are, please feel free to leave a comment. May peace and serenity be with you.
Let’s get back to our story.
The Santa Rosa orphanage was located on the outskirts of the city, surrounded by large, centuries-old acacia trees and an almost supernatural calm.
Clara arrived the next morning, carrying an expired bar card, a folder of notes, and the stubborn determination of someone who has already overcome most of her fears.
Rosa Guzmán, the 70-year-old director, received her in a cramped office covered with children’s drawings.
“I don’t know what you think you’re doing here, señora,” said Rosa, crossing her arms. “Elena is under state protection. Unauthorized visitors are prohibited.”
“I just want to talk about how she got here,” Clara replied calmly. “And what happened after her visit to her father.”
Rosa watched the older woman for a long time. Something in Clara’s tired but determined gaze must have convinced her.
“The little girl arrived six months ago,” Rosa finally said. “Her uncle Javier brought her. He said he couldn’t take it anymore: too much work, too much travel. But she had bruises on her arms when she arrived. No explanation. Since then, she barely speaks, eats little, sleeps very little. She has nightmares every night.”
Clara felt an icy shiver run down her spine.
“And what happens after the prison visit?”
Rosa looked down at her hands. “Since her return, not a word. The doctors say she’s physically fine. It’s as if… she’s said everything she had to say, and now the silence is final.”
Through the window, Clara saw a little girl with light brown hair sitting alone on a bench in the courtyard, her gaze lost in the void.
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