—Suspend everything. Now. Nobody is to move Ramira Fuentes from here until further notice. And immediately inform the duty prosecutor that I need the case reopened urgently and a warrant issued for the arrest of Julián Fuentes.
The youngest guard ran without asking.
The oldest man, who for years had treated Ramira like just another condemned woman, then looked at her with an almost embarrassed bewilderment.
Ramira continued to cling to Salomé as if, by loosening her arms even slightly, the world would snatch her away again.
“Colonel,” she said, her voice trembling, “he forced me to lie that night. He told me he was going to take my daughter. And then, during the trial, his lawyer repeated the same thing to me, though not so clearly: that if I insisted on Julián’s story, they would say I was delusional, that the girl would end up in a children’s home, and that no one would ever see her again. I… I couldn’t…”
Méndez closed his eyes for a second.
He then understood what had bothered him since the trial.
It wasn’t that I didn’t see any fault.
It was that what he saw in Ramira’s eyes was not the gaze of a murderer.
It was the look of a terrified mother.
“Why didn’t his defense say so?” he asked.
Ramira let out a bitter, miserable laugh.
—Because my public defender told me that accusing my brother without evidence was “procedural suicide.” That with my fingerprints and bloodstained clothes, the only option was to cry, admit to a fight, and beg for mercy. But I didn’t kill my husband. I tried to stop the bleeding. That’s all.
Salome put her hand in her sweater pocket and took out a small object.
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